All Chapters of The Billionaire's Regret: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Chapter TwelveThe slip of paper still burned against my palm. My fingers had clenched so tightly around it that the edges bent and tore. I sat frozen on the floor, the silence of the room pressing against my ears. The only sound was my own breathing, sharp and ragged, and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.Tomorrow’s headline is your choice. Talk now, or be erased.The words circled my mind like vultures. They had not come here just for a statement. They wanted a spectacle. They wanted me to crack in front of their cameras, to give Elizabeth exactly what she wanted. A public collapse, proof of my supposed madness.I pressed the paper to the carpet and tried to steady myself. My ribs ached from each breath. My skin felt clammy, drained by the medicine that soothed the storm in my chest but hollowed me out in return. Every pill I took pulled the color from my body. It left me pale and ghostlike, which the cameras loved. Weakness photographed well.I wanted to scream. Instead I

Chapter FourteenThe first thing I felt was softness. Not the scratchy hotel sheets, not the stiff mattress that bruised my back, but something deep, thick, a bed that seemed to swallow me whole.I jerked awake, gasping.The ceiling above me was wrong. Not cracked plaster, not a smoke-stained tile. It was smooth, painted ivory, faint shadows cutting across it from the wide windows on my right.Where am I?The sheets slid as I sat up too fast. The room spun, the ache in my ribs firing sharp warnings that I ignored. My fingers twisted the blanket until my knuckles ached. The air smelled faintly of cedar and linen, clean and expensive.I scanned the room. It was vast, too vast, with sleek lines and quiet wealth in every detail. A glass wall framed the skyline, washed in pale gold by the rising sun. Below, the city stretched awake, but here everything was silent. A leather couch sat untouched in the corner, a marble table reflected the light, and a decanter with amber liquor stood ready,

Chapter SixteenThe morning did not arrive gently. It broke into me with noise and light.I woke to the sound of voices, sharp but distant, and the flicker of a screen I had not noticed the night before. The stranger’s apartment was no longer wrapped in quiet. Something alive pulsed through the walls, breaking the fragile stillness that had carried me through the night.The television was on.I sat up too fast and pain exploded in my ribs, a scream locked behind clenched teeth. My eyes adjusted slowly, and then I saw it. The screen across the room, alive with words and images. The stranger stood near it, arms folded, his posture rigid. He did not move when I stirred. He only stared, as if the screen was daring him to look away.And then my breath caught.My name.Not whispered behind doors. Not tucked into gossip. Bold and merciless, stretched across the screen in blood red letters: AVA COBBS: FALLEN STAR, BROKEN WIFE.The photograph they used was not even recent. It was from two year

Chapter EighteenI wake to the faint scrape of a chair against the floor. The light in the room is soft gray, morning threading its way through the curtains. For a moment I do not know where I am. Then the smell of coffee and the quiet hum of the city remind me. Liam’s apartment. The blanket is still wrapped around me, the leather case heavy against my chest.He sits at the table with a folded newspaper, though I doubt he is reading. He notices when I stir, his eyes lifting from the page.“You did not move all night,” he says.My voice is rough. “I did not mean to sleep here.”“It does not matter.” He folds the paper shut and sets it aside. A pause follows, heavy, like he is waiting for me to breathe before he speaks again. “I want you to come with me tonight.”The words slice through the fragile quiet. I push myself upright, clutching the blanket closer. “Come where?”“A gala.” His tone is even, but his eyes hold mine with a strange insistence.I shake my head, already shaking apart

Chapter TwentyThe silence presses in on me, heavy and suffocating. The line of guests murmurs impatiently behind me, shifting in their glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos, their perfume and cologne mingling with the faint scent of roses that line the stairway. The attendant waits with an unflinching stare, his gloved hand resting firmly on the rope barrier, and Elizabeth’s mocking smile slices straight through me. My hands tremble as I clutch my empty bag, my fingertips brushing uselessly through the fabric once more, searching for something that is not there. The invitation is gone, and so is any trace of confidence I had left.“Without it, you cannot enter,” the attendant repeats, his voice clipped, sharp, like a final strike of a gavel. There is no space for compromise in his tone, no softness, no mercy.The ground feels as though it is tilting beneath me. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the distant murmur of violins that leak from the ballroom. I open my mouth, but no sou