All Chapters of Betrothed To Six Lovers: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Lila’s P.O.V.I sat on the edge of the couch with the sale agreement still clutched in my hands, the ink so fresh it almost smelled. Fifty thousand dollars. That was all my company—my blood, my late nights, my every spare thought for six years—had been worth to someone. To him.Damien.The name alone made my stomach turn over. I dropped the papers onto the coffee table like they might burn me and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. How had I not seen it? How had I signed my name, smiled at the lawyer’s assistant, shaken hands with the “anonymous buyer’s representative” without once suspecting the shadow behind the curtain?I knew why. I’d been desperate. The legal fees from the custody hearings, the private investigator tracking Damien’s movements, the mounting bills after Ethan walked out—they’d eaten through every cushion I had. The vineyard was in Ethan’s name now; the council had made sure of that. My design business was the last piece

Lila’s P.O.V.The apartment had started to feel smaller every day, like the walls were learning how to breathe in time with my worry. Four days. Maybe five. I’d lost count. Time didn’t move the same way when you were indoors with three small children and no schedule except survival. Mornings bled into afternoons, afternoons into evenings, evenings into nights where I lay awake listening to their breathing and trying not to count the dollars disappearing from my account like water through cracked fingers.I’d cooked everything I could think of to stretch what was left in the pantry. Rice with a little onion and the last of the frozen mixed vegetables. Oatmeal thickened with extra water and a single spoonful of peanut butter split three ways. Spaghetti again—without meatballs this time because the ground beef was gone. The kids didn’t complain. They were too young to understand budgets. They just ate what I put in front of them, asked for seconds when there weren’t any, and then asked f

Lila’s P.O.V.I stared at the screen, the glow casting blue shadows across my knuckles. My tears had dried into salty tracks on my cheeks, but new ones welled up as I read his words again. *You’re still the only one I wrote it for.* Simple. Direct. Like he’d been holding onto that truth all these years, waiting for the right moment to let it slip out.The typing dots appeared again, vanished, reappeared. I held my breath, afraid to exhale and shatter the fragile bridge we were building across the digital divide.Then: *I’m coming home tomorrow. Can I see you?*My sob turned into a laugh—wet, broken, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and forgotten. See me? In this mess? With peanut butter stains on my shirt and worry lines etched deeper than the Grand Canyon? With three kids who didn’t know him from a stranger on the street?But God, yes. I wanted to see him. More than I wanted air.I typed back, fingers fumbling. *Yes. Please.*Sent.Delivered.The dots danced immediately.

Lila's P.O.VThe next morning arrived soft and golden, the kind of light that sneaks through cheap blinds and makes even cracked walls look almost intentional. I woke before the kids for once, not because of nightmares or lawyer dread, but because something warm had settled in my chest overnight—like a small animal finally uncurling after years of being clenched.The cheque.I’d left it on the nightstand instead of hiding it again, like leaving it out made it more real. Five figures. Not Monopoly money, not a fantasy. Actual numbers that could pay the overdue electric bill twice over, cover preschool registration for Shayla next fall, buy new shoes that actually fit Lucas’s growing feet instead of the hand-me-downs with holes in the toes. It could buy time—breathing room so I didn’t have to choose between groceries and diapers every two weeks.I sat up slowly, careful not to wake Aiden, who was curled against my hip like a comma. The spaghetti-jar ranunculus still stood on the dresser

Lila’s P.O.VThe playground felt smaller this afternoon, the rusty slide and chipped benches suddenly too exposed under the late-winter sun. Lucian arrived right on time, paper bags crinkling as he knelt to greet the kids with dinosaur cookies and juice pouches. Shayla barreled into his legs first, Lucas right behind, Aiden reaching from my arms with sticky fingers. He laughed—quiet, warm—and let them climb him like a tree.We sat on the bench afterward, shoulders almost touching. The kids ran to the swings while we watched in comfortable silence. My phone stayed quiet in my pocket for once. No urgent texts from Diane. No spam. Just the ordinary sounds of children laughing and chains creaking.Then the whispers started.Not loud. Not directed at us. But close enough.Two moms near the sandbox glanced over, then leaned in to each other. “…heard she’s the granddaughter…” “…the old estate up north…” “…one of the six who asked her, the singer one…”My skin went cold.I kept my eyes on Sha