All Chapters of MY HUSBAND'S HIDDEN TRUTH : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Leander's POV I woke up at four thirty in the morning – I haven't slept much the past day. My mind has a lot of things to do. I know that Quinn is already awake because I can see a dim light on her slightly opened room. We have to find good lawyers – people who know about the old contracts and who were there when all of this happened. So I grabbed my phone and called someone. “Hello,” a woman’s voice answered. “This is Maria Reyes – how may I help you?” “I am Leander Ivanov,” I responded. “I need to hire a legal team to help me fix old company problems. My grandfather sent out our original partners, and we need to make everything right." She is quiet for a moment. “I know about your case,” she says. “I have worked on things like this before. It's not gonna be easy, but we can at least try.” We talked for an hour. She asked about the papers I have, the contracts, letters, and photos. I told her everything that I know, and she said she will come to the office tomorrow to look

I woke up burning. Not warm—burning. My skin feels like it’s been under the sun all day, and my head spins so badly I can barely focus. For a moment I have no idea where I am. The room is dim, the curtains drawn. And there’s someone beside me in the bed. I turned my head slowly and saw Wren. She’s asleep, her hair spread across the pillow like dark silk. My heart starts beating so fast, I tried to remember how we ended up here, but my mind feels foggy. The last thing I remember is yesterday evening. I was still in my office, finishing paperwork long after everyone else had left. Jake—my officemate—came in holding a bottle. “You look exhausted, Leander,” he said, setting it on my desk. “Drink this, it’ll help you great.” I didn’t questioned him. I thanked and took a long sip. It tasted sweet pineapple, maybe but there was a sharp aftertaste I couldn’t place. Not long after that, something started to feel wrong. My body heated up, like a fever spreading under me. Eve

Quinn's POV The hospital room smells like clean sheets and medicine so I asked my new friend Lincoln to bring some air freshener. The walls are white and plain, but I pasted a photo of my mother on the wall next to my bed, she is smiling, holding a bouquet of white lilies, it's her favorite, and mine too.I sit up slow, careful not to pull on the IV line in my arm. Dr. Reyes said I can go home tomorrow and the baby is stable now, and my body is healing. But 'home' does not feel like a real place anymore. My apartment is small and quiet, and every corner reminds me of Leander. I have been thinking about finding a new place, but I do not have the energy to look for some yet. I heard a knock on the door, it was gentle, like whoever is there does not want to startle me. I said “come in,” and Lincoln walks in. He is holding a big bouquet of white lilies in one hand and a small pot in the other. His face lights up when he sees me.“Quinn!” he said smiling, walking over to my bed. “How ar

Lincoln's POV The alarm on my phone goes off at five thirty, but I was already awake. I’ve never been a heavy sleeper—not since I was a kid, when my grandma would wake me up before dawn to help her bake bread for the shop she ran. She’d say, “The best work gets done when the world is still quiet, Lincoln. That’s when your mind is clear.” I’ve lived by that ever since.I swung my legs out of bed and pull on jeans and a gray hoodie, my go-to for early mornings. I pad down the hall to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of dark roast, and look out the window at the garden. In a few minutes, I’ll head over to the villa to check on Quinn—she moved in yesterday, and I want to make sure she slept well.I’ve been thinking about her a lot since the day I almost hit her by the river. Not just as a designer I want to work with, but as a person. There’s something about the way she carries herself, quiet strength, like she’s been through hell but refuses to let it break her. It reminds me of my gran

Leander's POVI’ve been standing in the alley behind the old market for twenty minutes, watching the crowd move like water through the narrow streets. The air smells like fried fish, fresh bread, and the sharp scent of spices from the stall at the corner—Quinn used to love coming here with me, back when we thought every day could be this simple. We’d spend hours walking from stall to stall, her hands full of fabric swatches and sketches, mine carrying bags of food she’d insist on buying for the workers at the factory. “They make everything we sell,” she’d say, handing me a bag of warm samosas. “The least we can do is make sure they eat well.”I came here today because Wren said Quinn might be stopping by the weaver’s stall—“She’s looking for new fabric for the collection,” she’d told me yesterday. “Maybe you could talk to her, just say hello.” But now that I’m here, hidden in the shadows, watching her laugh at something the man next to her says, I can’t move. My feet feel like they’re