All Chapters of Betrothed To Six Lovers: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Lila's P.O.VThe sapphire on my finger had become second nature now, a subtle weight that reminded me of promises kept rather than dreams deferred. Eight months into marriage, and Blackwood Manor hummed with a rhythm I’d never dared imagine: Ethan’s footsteps on the creaky stairs in the morning, the scent of his coffee mingling with Lavigne’s fresh scones, evenings spent sketching greenhouse expansions or debating paint swatches for the guest cottages. Life was steady, full, almost suspiciously perfect.Then came the trip to Europe.Ethan’s career had taken an unexpected turn the previous year. What started as a passion project—designing sustainable training facilities for elite athletes—snowballed when a prominent French football club commissioned him for their new academy outside Paris. Word spread in those rarefied circles, and soon he was consulting for a rising star in European tennis: Victor Laurent, a young French prodigy ranked in the top ten, known for his explosive serve and

Lila's P.O.VWe flew back to Blackwood two weeks later, the Paris glow still clinging to us like the scent of those ranunculus I'd pressed between the pages of my sketchbook. Ethan had wrapped up the preliminary designs for Victor's alpine retreat, and the press had finally eased off a bit—though not before one last splashy spread in Vogue Hommes featuring him shirtless on a mock-up beam, captioned something ridiculous like "The Architect Who Builds Dreams... and Bodies." I'd teased him mercilessly about it on the plane, but secretly, I loved it. Loved watching the world catch up to what I'd known all along: that my husband was extraordinary.Blackwood welcomed us with its familiar quiet—the crunch of late-winter gravel under the tires, the greenhouse lights flickering on as we pulled into the drive. Diane had left a casserole in the fridge and a note: "Welcome home, superstars. Don't let the fame go to your heads. Or Ethan's, anyway." I laughed, folding it into my pocket. Home. It fe

Lila's P.O.VThe weeks after Felicia's retreat felt like a fragile peace, the kind that settles over a battlefield after the smoke clears but before the scavengers arrive. Ethan and I slipped back into our rhythms in Blackwood—him sketching blueprints for a new eco-lodge upstate, me buried in client meetings at the firm, where Diane kept shooting me those knowing glances over coffee. "You're glowing again," she'd say, but I knew she meant the opposite; the weight of it all still clung to me like damp soil after rain. The vineyard was secure, the council's grip firm, and Damien's silence stretched on, a taut wire I half-expected to snap.We'd decided to celebrate properly, though. A weekend getaway to the city—New York, not Paris this time. No shadows of the past lurking in cobblestone alleys. Just us, anonymous in the bustle, reclaiming our space. Ethan booked a suite at a boutique hotel in SoHo, the kind with exposed brick and views of the skyline that made you feel invincible. "No w

Lila's P.O.V.The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of our bedroom, casting delicate shadows on the rumpled sheets. It had been two weeks since that explosive night in the study, two weeks of this new, jagged rhythm in our marriage. Ethan stirred beside me, his arm draped possessively over my waist, as if even in sleep he needed to remind me I was his. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body aching in ways that weren't just physical. The bruises from his grip had faded, but the deeper marks—the ones on my soul—lingered like ghosts.It started subtly, this shift in our intimacy. After the brawl in New York, Ethan's touches had turned from tender to territorial. He'd always been passionate, but now it was like he was trying to imprint himself on me, to erase any trace of Damien's shadow. And the conception thing... God, that was the root of it all. I'd been careful, so careful, ever since Shay. After every time we made love, I'd slip away to the bathroom, flushing aw

Lila's P.O.VThe autumn had given way to winter's chill, the vineyard hills dusted with frost that sparkled under the pale sun. It had been a month and a half since Dr. Harlan's phone call shattered my world with the news of my pregnancy—six weeks along, she estimated, though the math blurred in my mind. Those early days were a whirlwind of nausea that hit like a tidal wave each morning, fatigue that draped over me like a heavy cloak, and a tentative joy that Ethan and I nurtured like a fragile flame. We'd attended our first prenatal appointment together, his hand steady in mine as the doctor confirmed the heartbeat—a rapid, fluttering sound that brought tears to my eyes. "Strong," the obstetrician had said, smiling. "Everything looks good so far."But good was relative. Shay's memory haunted me, a ghost in the quiet moments when I touched my still-flat belly. I whispered to the life inside, promises of protection, vows to be stronger this time. Ethan was my rock, transformed from the