บททั้งหมดของ VELVET CONTROL : บทที่ 211 - บทที่ 220

Catriona Agreste I returned to the penthouse just after sunset, the New York skyline glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows like scattered diamonds against the deepening twilight. The federal courthouse training had left me mentally drained but strangely focused. Rachel’s quiet update about her cousin Lena still lingered, as did Marcus Hale’s pointed observation about the black Mercedes on the West Side Highway at 2:45 a.m. I chose not to mention either. Not tonight. Shawn was already there, jacket discarded over the back of the leather sofa, sleeves rolled once, the city lights casting sharp shadows across his face. He looked up the moment I stepped inside, that familiar mix of hunger and restraint tightening his jaw. I set my bag down and walked straight to him, stopping close enough that the heat of his body brushed mine. No accusations. No questions. Instead, I looked up into his eyes and spoke the words I had rehearsed on the ride back. “I want us to get marrie

Shawn Reid The days leading up to the wedding had become a whirlwind of meticulous planning. Invitations were being finalized — thick cream cardstock with gold embossing, addressed to every key figure at Reid Capital, the full executive board, and now extending to the judicial circles Catriona moved in. We had spent the morning personally delivering invitations to several federal judges and prosecutors at the Southern District courthouse in Manhattan. Handshakes, polite smiles, and congratulations followed us everywhere. Catriona glowed with quiet pride in her new role. I stood beside her as the proud fiancé, playing the part the system and I both desperately wanted to make real. By afternoon, we were at one of the most exclusive floral ateliers in Midtown, surrounded by towering arrangements of white roses, orchids, and delicate greenery that would transform The Plaza into something unforgettable. Catriona was in the lobby area, carefully reviewing invitation samples and design

Catriona Agreste The call came while I was reviewing case files in a quiet corner of the federal courthouse library in Lower Manhattan. Sophia Laurent’s voice was calm but heavy on the other end of the line. “Catriona… Charles is awake. He’s alive. The doctors say he’s stable enough to be discharged today. I thought you should know.” My heart slammed against my ribs. Alive. After everything — the crash, the coma, the terrible spinal injury — Charles was alive. “I’m on my way,” I said quickly, already gathering my things. The cab ride to Mount Sinai felt endless. Manhattan traffic crawled as my mind raced. I didn’t know what I would say to him. Thank you? I’m sorry? I hope you find peace? All I knew was that I needed to see him — to face the man who had loved me so desperately, even if only for a few final moments — before Shawn and I stepped into our future together. I arrived at the private wing flushed and breathless. The nurse at the station gave me a sympathetic but

Catriona Agreste The doorbell rang late in the afternoon while Shawn and I were reviewing the final seating chart for the wedding at The Plaza. New York sunlight poured through the penthouse windows, catching the scattered invitation cards and floral mockups spread across the dining table. I wasn’t expecting anyone. When Shawn opened the door, two children stepped inside — a boy and a girl, around six or seven years old, holding hands with a woman I recognized immediately from photos. Carlisle Gallagher. She looked elegant and composed in a tailored coat, her resemblance to Anne Hathaway still striking even in person. The twins — Shawn’s biological children — stared at us with wide, curious eyes. The boy had Shawn’s sharp jawline. The girl had his intense gaze. Carlisle offered a small, careful smile. “I hope we’re not intruding. They asked to meet you both before the wedding. I thought it was time.” Shawn stood frozen for a moment, then stepped aside to let them in. I

Shawn Reid The final weeks before the wedding had become a beautiful kind of chaos. Invitations were sent, the Plaza ballroom was confirmed, and the city’s elite — judges, federal prosecutors, Reid Capital executives — had all RSVPed. But nothing prepared me for the moment my mother, Mayette, called me into her private study overlooking Central Park. She didn’t waste words. “I’m gifting you the villa in the Maldives,” she said, sliding a sleek folder across the mahogany desk. “Fully staffed. Private beach. Complete seclusion for three weeks. Consider it my wedding present to both of you.” I stared at the documents — deeds, keys, security protocols, and a schedule for the private jet. The Maldives. Crystal waters, overwater villas, absolute privacy. The kind of place where the system’s reach felt distant and the world narrowed down to just Catriona and me. “Mother… this is too much,” I started, but she raised a hand. “You’ve fought hard for this, Shawn. For her. I see how