All Chapters of Betrothed To Six Lovers: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Lila’s P.O.VThe door clicked shut behind Lucian with the soft finality of a period at the end of a long sentence. I stood there in the entryway for a full minute after he left, one hand still on the knob, listening to the echo of his footsteps fading down the stairwell. The apartment smelled like pancakes and bacon and the faint cedar that always seemed to cling to his jacket. Aiden was napping in his crib, the other two sprawled across the living-room rug with their block castle still standing—miraculously—beside them. For once the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full. Too full.I walked to the couch on legs that felt borrowed and sank down. My coffee had gone cold on the table. I picked it up anyway, cradled the mug between my palms like it could anchor me. My heart was doing that stupid, fluttering thing again—half excitement, half terror—like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.Lucian had stayed three hours. Three ordinary, extraordinary hours. He hadn’t rushed out the second

Lila’s P.O.VThe courthouse hallway smelled the same as it had two weeks earlier—stale coffee, floor wax, and the faint metallic tang of anxiety that never quite left the air. I sat on the same bench outside Courtroom 4B, knees pressed together, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles showed white. The kids were with Diane again; she’d taken them to the children’s play area downstairs with strict instructions to keep their phones off and their minds on coloring books. I didn’t want them anywhere near this room today.Today wasn’t about Ethan.Today was about Damien.My lawyer, Ms. Rivera, sat beside me flipping through a thin folder of documents. She’d spent the last month gathering everything: birth certificates listing Damien Voss as father on all three, bank statements showing zero deposits since Aiden was six months old, text-message screenshots of his promises (“I’ll send it next week, swear”), court orders he’d ignored, and the emergency affidavit I’d sworn out detailing the financ

Lila's P.O.VFriday arrived like a bruise that had been waiting to darken. The summons had gone out Wednesday afternoon; Ms. Rivera confirmed receipt Thursday morning. Damien had been ordered to appear at 2:00 p.m. in Courtroom 4B, same bench, same judge, same cold fluorescent light that made everyone look slightly unwell. I woke at 5:30 to the sound of Aiden coughing in his crib, changed him, fed him, dressed the older two, and tried to keep my hands from shaking while I poured cereal.Lucian had stayed the night again—on the pull-out, clothes folded neatly on the chair, phone charging on the coffee table. He didn’t crowd me. He made coffee while I got the kids ready, kissed my temple when I passed him in the hallway, told Shayla her ponytail looked “fierce” and Lucas his dinosaur shirt was “battle-ready.” When Diane arrived to take them to her place for the afternoon, he walked them downstairs with her, carried Aiden’s car seat, made sure the double stroller didn’t catch on the lobb

Lila's P.O.VThe envelope arrived on a Tuesday in the middle of March, three weeks after the last child-support deposit cleared and four days after Lucian’s manager called with the tour dates. Cream stationery, black wax seal, the Voss crest pressed so deeply the paper dimpled around it. No courier this time—just slipped under the apartment door sometime between when I took the kids to preschool drop-off and when I came back with coffee and a headache.I opened it standing in the kitchen, the kettle still whistling behind me.*Lila,**The council elders convened yesterday. They have reviewed the trust codicil and your father’s final testament. While your prolonged absence has raised questions of suitability, they remain bound by his express wish: that the heir apparent retain the right to reclaim her place until the close of the calendar year. One month remains.**However, the elders have also noted recent developments—your continued residency in substandard conditions, association wi

Lila's P.O.VThe article popped up on my phone while I was waiting for Shayla outside the preschool gate. One of those auto-scroll feeds I never asked for but never quite turned off either. The headline was small, almost buried between ads for spring coats and celebrity baby announcements: *Ethan Whitaker’s Career Slide: From Golden Boy to Benchwarmer?*I almost swiped past it. Almost.But the photo loaded first—him on the sideline during last Sunday’s game, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes fixed somewhere off-camera. The same sharp jaw, the same easy posture that used to make cameras follow him like moths. Except now the posture looked forced. The eyes looked tired. The caption underneath read: *Once the league’s golden arm, Whitaker has seen limited snaps this season amid questions about declining athleticism and off-field distractions.*I stared at the screen until a mom bumped my elbow on her way past. “Sorry,” she said. I mumbled something back and shoved the phone in my po