Todos os capítulos de The Billionaire’s Debt Bride: Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

Mara POVThe sailboat tilts hard to starboard, and I grab the rigging before I can think."Good instinct." Lucien adjusts the mainsail, muscles flexing under his white linen shirt. "Now pull that line when I say."I don't answer, just grip the rope and wait.We're forty minutes into couples' sailing, and already I hate every second. The other couples work their boats with practiced ease—Victoria and James moving in perfect sync, the Pattersons actually laughing together despite their supposed arrangement."Now," Lucien commands.I pull. The sail catches wind. The boat surges forward."Perfect." His hand covers mine on the rope, adjusting my grip. "Hold it steady."His touch burns through the cotton. I focus on the horizon instead, on the endless blue that stretches in every direction."You're a natural," Victoria calls from the boat beside us. "How long have you been sailing?""This is my first time," I called back."Really? You two work together like you've been doing this for years!

Mara POVAfter massages come facials, then pedicures—everyone now wearing plush white towels knotted just above the breasts. The other wives trade stories about their marriages like war veterans comparing scars.I sit in a pedicure chair, my feet submerged in warm, bubbling water that smells of lavender and mint. A technician kneels before me, her hands gentle as she lifts my right foot from the water, patting it dry with a heated towel before reaching for a bottle of coral pink polish. I watch the brush glide over my toenail in smooth, practiced strokes while around me, their voices rise and fall like waves.Vivienne stretches languidly in her chair, one arm draped over the side, champagne flute dangling from her fingers. She mentions casually that she and James sleep in separate wings of their house. “Better for everyone,” she says brightly, swirling the golden liquid in her glass. “We both value our space.” She brings the flute to her lips, takes a slow sip, and her eyes close brie

Mara POVThe bonfire crackles against the night sky, flames dancing higher as someone adds more driftwood. Couples huddle under blankets, roasting marshmallows and laughing at stories I'm not part of. I calculate how long I need to stay before I can fake a migraine and escape.Thirty minutes. I can survive thirty minutes."That seat taken?"I look up. Frederick Mason stands there with two wine glasses and an easy smile. I recognize him from yesterday's poolside lunch—Lucien's business rival, though you'd never know it from his relaxed demeanor."It's all yours."He settles onto the driftwood log beside me, handing me a glass. "You looked like you needed a refill.""That obvious?""Only to someone who's been to enough of these things to recognize a fellow survivor." He raises his glass. "To making it through another day of corporate couples therapy disguised as a retreat."I can't help but smile. "Is that what this is?""What else would you call forced proximity with people who measure

Lucien POVI wake to sunlight flashing through the curtains and my cheek still throbbing.The slap. Right. Mara's palm connecting with my face hard enough to leave a mark that probably mirrors the handprint burning into my conscience.I deserved it.The thought is unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. I've spent years building a life where I'm never wrong, never vulnerable, never the one who has to apologize.And yet.I touch my cheek. Still tender. A reminder of the moment I crossed a line I can't uncross.The suite is quiet. Too quiet.I find her on the balcony, legs tucked under her in the wicker chair, staring at the ocean. She's still in pajamas—silk pants and a tank top that should look casual but somehow makes her look more unreachable than any designer gown."You're up early," I say.She doesn't turn. "Couldn't sleep."I step onto the balcony. Keep my distance. The space between us feels mined with explosives."Mara…""Don't." Her voice is flat. Empty. "Just don't.""I need to apologize.

Mara POVThe last full day of the retreat dawns with a sky that looks like a warning.I stand at my window watching dark clouds gather on the horizon, my fingers pressed against the cool glass. The ocean is restless. Gray and churning.“We should cancel,” I heard someone say at breakfast.“Nonsense.” Rowan waves off the concern with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “The captain says we’ll be fine. Little weather never hurts anyone.”I look at the storm forecast on my phone. Severe thunderstorm warning. Small craft advisory. Everything screams danger.But the sailing excursion is planned. The yacht is waiting. And no one in this group backs down from anything.Especially not because of something as mundane as common sense.***The yacht is impressive. All gleaming white surfaces and polished wood. Big enough for our group to spread out across multiple decks.“Welcome aboard,” the captain says. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s seen the forecast too.But Rowan chartered this boat.