Semua Bab The Billionaire’s Fake Widow: Bab 1 - Bab 10

The black Maybach glided through the towering iron gates like a ghost slipping into another world, its tires whispering over the perfectly manicured gravel driveway as if the car itself knew it didn’t belong to the likes of Evie Monroe. She pressed her forehead against the cool, tinted window, breath fogging the glass in shallow bursts. Her heart was still racing from the phone call, from the signature she had scribbled in Thorne’s office, from the impossible promise of fifty million dollars that now sat in her bank account like a loaded gun. Outside, the Voss Mansion rose ahead like something torn from a dark fairy tale—three stories of gleaming white stone, black marble columns that gleamed wet under the rain, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that reflected the stormy sky like angry mirrors. Towering floodlights sliced through the downpour, turning every raindrop into a cascade of liquid diamonds. This wasn’t an office. This wasn’t even a house. This was a palace.The driver ope

The Maybach’s tires crunched over the wet gravel as it rolled to a stop in front of Voss Mansion at exactly 12:47 a.m. Rain lashed the windshield in silvery sheets, turning the towering white-stone facade into something out of a gothic nightmare. Evie Monroe sat frozen in the back seat, the black Givenchy gown still clinging to her like a second skin soaked with cemetery mist and nervous sweat. Her veil was long gone—tossed onto the seat beside her—but the weight of the day pressed down on her chest harder than any fabric ever could.The driver, a stoic man named Harlan who hadn’t spoken more than ten words since picking her up after the funeral, opened the door without a sound. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and expensive roses from the funeral wreaths that had been delivered to the house earlier. Evie stepped out on shaky Louboutin heels, clutching her small black clutch like a lifeline. The mansion rose above her, three stories of dark windows and marble colum

As Victoria’s piercing gaze bore into her like a scalpel, Evie felt the walls of the sunroom closing in, the scent of fresh coffee turning bitter in her throat. The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the polished teak table where her untouched breakfast sat congealing. The Voss Mansion’s sunroom was a deceptive oasis—wicker chairs cushioned in cream linen, potted ferns swaying gently in the artificial breeze from hidden vents, and a panoramic view of the manicured gardens outside. But right now, it felt like a glass cage, with Victoria and Damien as the predators circling their prey.Evie straightened her spine, forcing her hands to stop trembling as she set down her coffee cup with a soft clink. She was Evelyn Voss now, not the scared obituary writer from a dingy apartment. But the weight of the lie pressed down on her, heavy as the diamond ring Thorne had slipped onto her finger last night—a “wedding band” that felt more like a s

Red lights flashed across the study, sirens wailing as Evie clutched the locket, her heart pounding in sync with the chaos. The once-silent room erupted into a nightmare of strobing crimson and piercing alarms that drilled into her skull like accusations. Bookshelves rattled faintly, the massive desk casting jagged shadows under the emergency glow. The masked man’s eyes widened behind his disguise, his gloved hand shooting out to grab her wrist. “This way—now!” he hissed, yanking her toward the open portrait panel with surprising strength. Evie’s bare feet stumbled on the cold floor, the gold locket warm in her fist as they plunged into the hidden alcove.The passage was narrow and dark, a vein of secrets burrowed into the mansion’s walls. Dust motes danced in the faint beam from the masked man’s flashlight, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and stone. Footsteps thundered from the hallway outside—security guards swarming like bees to a disturbed hive. “Intruder alert! All unit

The email’s subject line burned into Evie’s screen like a brand: “The Truth About Evelyn Voss—She’s No Widow.”Evie sat frozen in the Voss Mansion’s study, the afternoon light streaming through tall windows, casting long shadows across the desk where her tablet rested. The video conference feed, filled with the stern faces of board members scattered across the globe, suddenly crackled with tension as the anonymous message landed in every inbox like a digital bomb. The chime was deceptively soft, but the attachments exploded open: a series of photos that peeled back the layers of her carefully constructed facade. The first showed her old studio apartment in stark detail—the cracked window, stacks of unpaid medical bills fluttering in a draft, empty ramen cups littering the tiny kitchen counter; another captured her in the sterile glow of the public hospital corridor, her face drawn and tired as she clutched a worn handbag, waiting for news on her mother’s latest chemo session; a third