All Chapters of The Billionaire's Forgotten Bride: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

​The smell of antiseptic always made Damien’s stomach churn. It reminded him of vulnerability. It reminded him of his grandfather’s frail state, of contracts signed under duress, and of the night he had first looked down at Ariana Villareal as she knelt on the cold hospital tiles, begging for her brother's life. ​Now, he was the one walking through those corridors like a ghost. ​His expensive leather shoes dragged against the polished floor. He hadn't changed his clothes from the night before; his white shirt was wrinkled, and his jaw was covered in a thick layer of dark stubble. He didn't care. The employees of the Monteverde-owned medical center watched him pass in terrified silence, whispering among themselves. The cold, untouchable heir looked entirely hollowed out. ​Damien stopped in front of a door marked Dr. Evelyn Ramos — Obstetrics and Gynecology. ​He hesitated, his hand hovering over the silver doorknob. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, a frantic, painfu

​The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a thick, suffocating humidity that hung over the private memorial park owned by the Monteverdes. The grass was a deep, damp green, manicured to perfection, completely unbothered by the tragedy of the humans standing atop it.​An elegant white silk canopy shielded the elite guests from the morning sun. Dozens of pristine white roses, lilies, and orchids surrounded a polished, empty mahogany casket. Because the Manila coast guard had officially declared the search-and-recovery mission a failure after four exhausting weeks, the family had decided to hold a symbolic funeral.​A funeral without a body.​The high society of Manila attended in droves, dressed in expensive designer black attire. To them, it was just another social event, an opportunity to whisper behind their silk handkerchiefs about the tragic, mysterious end of the billionaire’s short-lived contract marriage.​Damien stood closest to the empty casket. He looked completely unreco

​The corporate world of Manila often whispered that Damien Alaric Monteverde had died the same year his wife vanished. The man who occupied the chief executive suite on the topmost floor of the Monteverde Corporation building was no longer human. He was an institution. A machine. Over the past five years, his empire had tripled in size, aggressively swallowing up competitors and expanding across the globe. He was wealthier, more powerful, and completely untouchable. He was also entirely dead inside.​“The acquisition papers for the European textile conglomerate are ready for your signature, Mr. Monteverde,” Mark spoke, his voice clipped and precise. Five years had aged the assistant, but his loyalty remained unshaken. He stepped into the sprawling office, placing a leather-bound folder on the mahogany desk.​Damien didn’t look up immediately. He was staring at a financial report on his tablet, his features sharp, angular, and devoid of any warmth. His hair was cut short, his black

​The sound of shattering glass was entirely swallowed by the polite applause echoing through the grand exhibition hall. Champagne flowed, diamonds caught the light of a hundred crystal chandeliers, and the elite of Europe murmured in collective admiration as the guest of honor reached the foot of the marble staircase.​But for Damien Alaric Monteverde, the world had narrow-focused into a terrifying, suffocating point.​His boots ignored the puddle of expensive scotch soaking into the hem of his trousers. His eyes, normally cold and unyielding, were wide, strained, and filled with a manic, desperate light. The air in his lungs tasted like ash. Five years of absolute certainty—five years of clutching a framed, tear-stained sketch in a dark library, believing he had driven the only woman he ever loved to a watery grave—vanished in a single heartbeat.​"Damien..." Selene’s voice was a frantic, terrified hiss beside him. Her fingers dug into his arm, her manicured nails tearing at the exp

​The neon lights of La Grande Épicerie de Paris flickered through the heavy sheet of rain outside, casting long, fractured shadows across the covered entrance of the gourmet establishment. The air smelled of wet asphalt, damp wool, and the bitter, sharp ozone of a full-blown European thunderstorm. ​Damien Alaric Monteverde didn't move. He stood completely rigid under the concrete overhang, his hands buried deep inside the pockets of his tailored black coat, his eyes locked onto the glass sliding doors of the exit. The rain beat a frantic, chaotic rhythm against the pavement just inches from his leather boots, but his mind was dead silent. ​He was still breathing the same air the boy had just exhaled. His boy. His blood. ​"Sir," Mark spoke nervously from behind him, holding a large black umbrella that shook slightly against the wind. "We should return to the vehicle. The paparazzi—some of the local stringers who monitor the high-end districts—they might spot you standing out here li