All Chapters of Bound to My Sister's Billionaire Crush: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

- SIERRAI stood on the sticky linoleum floor of a dressing room in Somerville, staring at my own reflection, completely ready to lose my mind over a pair of denim pants.They had this massive, ugly, nude-colored elastic band attached to the top that looked like a giant medical bandage."Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I muttered, tugging the fabric up over my hips.That’s what happened three days ago. My stomach didn't just curve anymore; it had officially popped right out into a basketball-shaped lump at twenty-four weeks. My oversized blazers looked like circus tents, and my regular jeans wouldn't even clear my mid-thigh without threatening to rip the seams.I looked down at the elastic panel resting over my belly, and before I could even stop myself, my throat tightened. A fat, hot tear rolled right down my nose and splashed onto the cheap price tag dangling from my hip.It was pathetic. I was standing in a discount store, crying over maternity pants while a toddler screamed in t

- DESMONDThe windshield wipers were doing this slow, annoying thwack against the glass. If I did, the Boston sleet would blur the second-floor windows of that textile building across the street, and I wasn't losing sight of that glass. My laptop was balanced on the steering wheel, the battery icon flashing a pissed-off red at fifteen percent. I had the newly launched landing page for Maison Nova Creative open.It was ridiculously clean. Minimalist font, plenty of whitespace, exactly the kind of style Sierra used to argue with our Manhattan design consultants about."They don't understand breathing room, Dez," she’d once told me, sitting cross-legged on our Italian leather sofa with a red marker in her hand. "They just want to cram logos everywhere."I zoomed in on the bottom right corner of the page where the agency’s footer sat. There was a tiny, custom graphic separator between the copyright and the contact link. A little hand-drawn pencil icon.I pinched the trackpad, blowing the

- SIERRAHis hand just hung there in the empty air between us, trembling like he’d been plugged into an outlet. The rain from his coat was pooling on my office floor, but neither of us looked down at it."Sierra," Desmond whispered. The word came out completely busted, rough around the edges, like he’d been screaming into a pillow for days. "What did you do?"I clamped my arms tight over my stomach, stepping backward until the edge of the receptionist's desk dug straight into the small of my back. "What did I do? Are you seriously asking me that right now?""Whose..." He swallowed hard, his chest heaving under that wet cashmere coat. His eyes were wide, tracking the shape of my arms against my sweater. "How long, Sierra?""Get out, Desmond." My voice wasn't loud, but it was shaking so hard my teeth clicked. "Get the hell out of my building. You don't get to come in here like this. You don't have the right to look at me, and you damn sure don't have the right to ask me questions.""It'

- DESMONDThe espresso machine in my new kitchen sounded like a lawnmower cutting gravel.It was seven in the morning, and the fog was unbelievably thick. Every muscle in my lower back ached after three restless hours on a mattress that smelled faintly of dusty cardboard.I’d managed to find a drafty, two-story detached house right across the narrow asphalt street from Maison Nova Creative. It was a cheap, peeling place that looked like it hadn't seen a renovation since the nineties. But it was private, it was entirely out of character for a Zimmerman, and the second-floor windows gave me a straight shot at her office door.I was standing by the window, looking across the alley at the dark glass of her agency, when the buzzer for the street door started vibrating so long I wondered if the button had gotten stuck. Then I realized someone was probably just refusing to take their finger off it.I didn't bother changing out of my gray heather sweats. I just walked down the narrow stairwel

- SIERRABy the time I hit thirty-two weeks, my ribs felt like they were being held together by duct tape and prayers. The baby had discovered a fun new game called "let's kick Mom's bladder at three in the morning," and the constant, dull roar of the Zimmerman-Wellington legal disaster wasn't exactly helping the vibe."Sierra, you need to sit down," Maya said, slamming a stack of folders onto my desk. "Your face is the color of skim milk." By the time Desmond came around, I finally told them my real name to avoid any complications."I'm fine," I muttered, trying to click through a font layout. "The GreenRoot account needs these revisions by...."A sharp, tight squeeze started right at the top of my bump and radiated down into my lower back, knocking the breath straight out of my throat. I froze, my fingers cramping over the mouse. It felt like someone had wrapped a heavy leather belt around my middle and was pulling it with both hands."Sierra?" Toby looked up from his monitor, his