All Chapters of Once Discarded, I Married His Dearest Daddy: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The blue Lamborghini sat in the driveway like a taunt. It was a beautiful, mechanical scream of defiance, still smelling of fresh leather and high-octane arrogance. Marcus had barely slept. He’d spent the night imagining the look on Diane’s face when he roared past her in a car that cost more than her entire childhood home. He wanted her to feel the gap between them. He wanted to remind her who actually owned the name Voss.He grabbed his keys and headed out early, the morning sun over the Mediterranean doing nothing to warm his mood. He needed a win. A small one. Maybe a watch he didn't need or a vintage bottle of something that would make his teeth ache with the price tag. Anything to feel the weight of his own power again.He pulled into a high-end boutique in the center of Monte Carlo, the kind of place where the doors are unlocked by a man in white gloves. He picked out a gold chronograph, barely looking at the face."I'll take it," Marcus said, sliding his titanium black card

Monaco was drowning in white. That was the first thing Marcus noticed when he woke up with a head that felt like it had been cracked open and filled with lead. White roses. White silk ribbons on every lamp post. A city practically surrendering to the ego of his father’s mid-life crisis. Or Diane’s masterpiece. At this point, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.The cathedral was a cavern of stifling luxury. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and the kind of perfume that cost more than a month's rent. It made Marcus feel claustrophobic. He sat in the front row, his back stiff, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a suit that felt like a straitjacket. He’d barely looked at himself in the mirror. He knew he looked tired. He knew he looked like a man who had spent the last forty-eight hours losing a war he didn't even know he was fighting.The music started. It wasn't some soft, romantic tune. It was a swell of strings that demanded you pay attention. It

The air in the new estate was different. It didn’t have that heavy, dusty smell of things that had been sitting in the dark for forty years. It was sharp. It smelled of fresh plaster, expensive white lilies, and the kind of floor wax that made you feel like you were walking on glass. They had moved into Villa Seraphina, a sprawling, modern fortress of limestone and light that sat higher on the cliffs than the old family home. Damien had called it a "fresh start." Diane just called it home. She stood in the center of the grand foyer, her heels making a lonely, echoing clack against the white marble. It was too quiet. But that was the point. The old villa had been a museum of Marcus’s mother. Every corner, every velvet curtain, every oil painting of a woman with sad eyes and pearls seemed to scream that Diane was a guest. An interloper. Not here. "Madame, the movers are asking about the gallery pieces," Sarah said, her voice small against the high ceilings. Diane didn't look bac

The sun hadn’t even fully cleared the horizon when Diane reached the executive suite. It was that blue, bruised hour of the morning where the glass towers of Monaco look like frozen ghosts. She liked the office best when it was empty. No egos to manage, no performance to give for Damien. Just the hum of the ventilation and the weight of her own ambition.She wasn't alone for long.Sarah was already there. She looked like she hadn't slept, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that was a little too tight, a little too frantic. She was standing by Diane’s granite desk, staring at a stack of manila folders like they were unexploded bombs."You're early," Diane said, shedding her coat.Sarah jumped, nearly knocking over a glass of water. "I couldn't wait. I stayed until three at the off-site archive.”"Show me."Diane sat. She didn't go for the big files first. She didn't want the loud scandals, the yacht crashes, the obvious messes. Those were messy, sure, but Marcus could always blame t

Marcus’s apartment didn't feel like a home anymore. It felt like a waiting room for a life that was never coming back. The air was stale, thick with the smell of old takeout and the expensive, smoky scotch he was drinking way too fast for a Tuesday afternoon. He was sitting on the edge of his designer sofa, the one Diane hadn't managed to repossess yet, staring at his phone.No calls from his father. No messages from the board. Just a notification from his bank reminding him that his "discretionary spending" was nearing its limit.Then the buzzer rang.He didn't want to answer it. He didn't want to see anyone. But the ringing was persistent, a sharp, jagged noise that cut through his headache. He stumbled to the door and pulled it open, expecting a courier or maybe a process server.It was Sophia.She looked... different. The polished, socialite glow was gone. Her hair was a little too messy, her makeup a little too heavy under the eyes. She pushed past him without waiting for an inv