All Chapters of THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Aria’s POV Morning came too fast after too little sleep, and I found Romanov already in the study when I came downstairs, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he’d never actually gone to bed. “You didn’t rest,” I said. “I rested enough,” he said, which wasn’t an answer at all. Dmitri arrived a few minutes later, a tablet under his arm and the brisk energy of someone who’d found something worth losing sleep over. “I ran everything Marta gave us against what we already had,” he said. “The name Voss checks out against three separate threads we’ve been tracking independently. Reyes’s financial trail, the shell structure funding your father’s retainer, and now this.” “Meaning it’s not a coincidence,” Romanov said. “Meaning whoever’s running this has been consistent for years,” Dmitri said. “Same name, same fear, same structure, reused across every layer we’ve uncovered. If Voss really is alive, or if someone’s simply wearing his authority like a mask, either way, he’s the thread

Aria’s POV “Two days,” Romanov repeated, his voice flat over the speaker’s static. “Before we knew Ashgrove mattered at all.” “Someone else already did,” Dmitri said. “Whoever it was pulled the founding family files specifically. Not a general search. They knew what they wanted.” “Can you tell who?” Romanov asked. “Not from here,” Dmitri said. “The access log traces to a public library terminal two counties over. No account, no card required. Whoever did it knew enough to stay untraceable.” I sat with that a while, the unease from earlier sharpening into something colder. “So we’re not the first people chasing this. We might not even be close to the first.” “No,” Romanov said. “Which means whatever’s waiting in Ashgrove, we’re not walking in ahead of anyone. We’re walking in late.” The town itself arrived the way Dmitri’s records had described it—quietly, without a welcome sign or any marker announcing where the county boundary ended and whatever remained of Ashgrove began. A

Aria’s POV We stayed the night in the only inn Ashgrove still had, a narrow building three streets from the square that looked like it survived more on stubbornness than business. None of us slept well. I lay awake listening to Romanov’s steady breathing beside me, wondering how many other names were waiting to surface once we started pulling threads that had been buried for generations. Elena had taken the room across the hall, and I heard her moving well past midnight, the floorboards creaking under slow, careful steps that told me she wasn’t sleeping either. When I finally drifted off, it was to the sound of Romanov’s phone buzzing quietly on the nightstand, some message from Dmitri he chose not to answer until morning. Over breakfast, Dmitri confirmed the estate remained secure, Marta accounted for, nothing unusual reported overnight. It should have been reassuring. Instead it felt like the calm before something we hadn’t yet identified. Marguerite received us the next mornin

Aria’s POV “Sir.” Dmitri’s voice came through tight, controlled. “Confirmed single shooter, rooftop position. The second angle was empty. Whoever staged this wanted redundancy in appearance, not in actual firepower.” “One,” Romanov repeated, something in his shoulders easing fractionally. “That’s still one more than we want pointed at this building.” “He’s already moving,” Dmitri said. “Packing up, not engaging. If this was meant as a warning, it’s been delivered.” We stayed away from the windows for another twenty minutes regardless, until Dmitri confirmed the rooftop was clear and the gray sedan had finally left its loop through the surrounding streets. Only then did Romanov let his grip on my hand ease, though the tension in his jaw didn’t fully release. “They could have taken the shot,” I said quietly, once we were sure it was over. “Why show us they could, and then just leave?” “Because dead, we stop being useful to whoever’s watching,” Romanov said. “Alive, and frightened

Aria’s POV We regrouped at the inn, Dmitri’s team stationed at every entrance now, the wounded attacker secured somewhere Dmitri wouldn’t name directly, though the grim set of his jaw told me the interrogation had already begun. Elena sat closest to the door, still favoring her injured wrist, though the fear in her eyes now had less to do with her own safety and more to do with whatever she suspected was coming for the rest of us. “He’s talking,” Dmitri said, joining us in the small room we’d claimed as a makeshift command post. “Not much yet. But enough to confirm this wasn’t Reyes’s network. Different chain of command entirely.” “Then who?” Romanov asked. “He won’t give a name,” Dmitri said. “But he keeps referencing something he calls ‘the correction.’ Like it’s a project, not an organization.” Elena, seated at the small table with the journal open in front of her, looked up sharply. “Correction,” she repeated. “My grandmother used a word like that once. She called it settin