บททั้งหมดของ I Left Broken and Fat, I Came Back His Boss With Triplets: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Liam's POVTalia's finger stays raised for three seconds.She is pointing directly at the window... directly at us. Her sunglasses reflect the grey sky, and her mouth is set in a thin, hard line that I recognize from a dozen dinner parties in Los Angeles, the expression she wore right before she dismantled someone's reputation over dessert.Then she lowers her hand. She picks up the leather travel bag from the balcony railing. She turns around and walks back inside the flat, and the green shutters swing closed behind her with a sharp, wooden crack that echoes across the narrow street.Emma lowers the binoculars. Her face is completely still, but her breathing has changed, short and controlled through her nose."She knows we are here," Julian says. He has not moved from the window. His hand is flat against the glass, his body angled slightly in front of Emma."She has known since we walked in," Emma says. "She has been watching this building

Liam’s POVThe red taillights of Henri’s car disappear around the corner of Rue de Grenelle, their reflection bleeding into the wet asphalt like fresh ink. The exhaust mists in the cold air, a brief, pale cloud that hangs over the cobblestones for three seconds before the wind sweeps it away.I am still standing in front of the locksmith’s shop.The rain is starting again, thin and needle-sharp, tapping against the shoulders of my coat. I do not pull my collar up. I do not move. My hands are still in my pockets, my fingers curled into tight, rigid fists against the lining.Marcus walks up beside me. He is holding a black umbrella, tilting it slightly to shield me from the drizzle, his face completely expressionless. He does not ask if I am alright. He does not offer a glass of water or a seat in the car. Marcus has been with me long enough to know when the silence in my chest is too heavy for him to disturb."The car is at the corner, sir," Marcus says quietly."Did she look back?" I

Liam’s POVThe double doors of the private dining salon at Le Meurice swing open without a sound.My father is sitting at the head of a mahogany table laid for four. He does not look up when my heels hit the parquet floor. He is cutting a slice of pear with a silver fruit knife, his movements precise, slow, and completely devoid of wasted energy.Arthur Carson looks exactly as he did when he forced me into an arranged marriage four years ago.His silver hair is cropped close to his skull. His bespoke charcoal suit fits his broad shoulders without a single wrinkle. At sixty-eight, he still carries himself with the brutal physical authority of a man who spent five decades bending global shipping routes and sovereign funds to his will."You took twenty minutes to cross the river, Liam," my father says, setting the knife on the bone china plate with a quiet click. "Traffic on the Right Bank is never an acceptable excuse for being late to a family meeting."I do not sit down. I stop at the

Emma’s POVThe double doors of my office swing open before Noémie can finish announcing them.Arthur Carson steps across the threshold with the heavy, deliberate tread of a man who has spent nearly four decades walking into rooms he commands. He wears a double-breasted charcoal coat cut from heavy English wool, his silver hair brushed back from his temples, his face a pale mask of absolute authority. At sixty-eight, he still carries the physical density of the young athlete he once was, though the power he wields now is purely financial and far more lethal.Behind him walk two senior partners from his Los Angeles legal team, carrying matching leather portfolios. They look at my glass walls, my polished floors, and the sweeping view of the Paris skyline with the mild, condescending interest of inspectors examining a small domestic project.Arthur stops five feet from my desk. He does not offer a greeting. He does not take off his leather gloves. His pale grey eyes... the cold, ancient o

Liam’s POVI am losing my mind.It is a simple, brutal fact and it has nothing to do with the executive pass I threw onto my father’s plate at Le Meurice last night, or the billions in family equity I walked away from.I do not care about the title... I do not care about the company...I care about the picture inside my head that is burning through my brain like acid.Julian Beaumont’s hands on Emma’s neck...Marcus’s team sent the update to my phone before we cleared the river. Two shots from the street across her office window... One of Julian stepping into her personal space... One of his long fingers wrapping around the side of her throat, his thumbs pressed against her jawline while she looked up at him with tears in her dark eyes...I am suffocating on my own blood."Sir," Marcus says from the front seat, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror. "The car has stopped. Number fourteen, Rue de Boulainvilliers. It is a private residential hôtel particulier owned by the Beaumon