All Chapters of I Left Broken and Fat, I Came Back His Boss With Triplets: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Liam’s POVI sit on the edge of the bed in my hotel suite, my rain-soaked coat heavy against my shoulders.Water drips from the hem onto the carpet, forming a dark, expanding stain between my shoes. I do not take the coat off. I do not move. The cold has sunk so deep into my bones that my teeth are chattering... a small, rhythmic clicking that sounds absurd in the quiet room.Marcus stands near the desk, holding a dry towel. He has offered it to me twice. I have not taken it."Sir," Marcus says quietly. "You need to change into dry clothes.""She looked at me," I say, my voice raspy, scraped raw. "When she stood at that gate... she looked at me like I was a ghost she couldn't wait to lay to rest."Marcus lowers the towel. He does not offer empty comfort. He knows better."She is protecting her children," Marcus replies."She is protecting them from my family," I correct, staring at the wet carpet between my feet. "From my

Liam’s POVThe wet stone of Rue Cler smells like cold rain and rising yeast.I stand in the dark recess of a doorway across from Philippe’s bakery, my coat collar turned up against the biting morning chill. The sky is just beginning to turn from black to a pale, bruised violet above the rooftops.Marcus steps out of the shadows beside me, the screen of his tablet glowing faintly against his palm."The commercial acquisition cleared at four thirty this morning," Marcus says, his voice low and even. "You now hold the deed to the building housing the bakery, as well as the adjoining properties on this side of the street.""And the security team?" I ask."Eight men stationed along the block," Marcus replies. "Two inside assisting with the morning prep, six positioned as delivery drivers and street sweepers. They have strict orders not to interfere unless a physical approach is made."I look across the narrow pedestrian street at the warm yellow light spilling through the windows of Philip

Emma’s POVJulian fills the narrow doorway.His shoulders block out the bright yellow light from the café, casting a long, dark shadow down the pantry corridor where Liam and I stand inches apart. His coat is off, his dark suit jacket fitting square across his chest, and his eyes... dark, amber, and unreadable... drop directly to Liam’s hand hovering near my face.The silence between the three of us is so thick I can hear the flour dust settling on the floor tiles.Liam does not drop his hand immediately.His fingers stay trembling an inch from my lip, his body vibrating with a wild, possessive heat that fills the narrow space between us. His white shirt is still damp from the rain outside, sticking to his chest, his breathing heavy and ragged. He turns his head slowly to face Julian, his grey eyes narrowing into two sharp slits of pure, unadulterated poison."Get out of the hallway, Beaumont," Liam says.His voice is low, raspy, carrying the raw, dangerous edge of a man who has reach

Emma’s POVThe glass door of Philippe’s bakery closes with a heavy, metallic click.Through the rain-streaked window, I watch two tall figures cross the wet pavement of Rue Cler. Liam walks with his head bowed against the wind, his dark coat soaked, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Julian walks half a pace beside him, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the street for any sign of Arthur’s men.Two men who despise each other, stepping into the same car to go to war for my children.Henri pulls the black sedan away from the curb, its red taillights cutting through the grey Paris mist. I stand by the window for a long moment, my hand pressed against the cool glass, watching the empty street until my breath fogs the pane.I turn back to the table.The café is quiet now. The morning rush has passed, leaving behind the rich, warm scent of toasted butter and dark espresso. Ace is sitting on the wooden bench, pressing the small brass catch of his pocket watch over and over. Every time

Liam’s POVThe rotor wash from the Eurocopter blasts cold rain across the concrete pad, spraying water into my eyes as my boots hit the ground.The sound of the looms inside the Beaumont mills is a heavy, rhythmic thudding that vibrates through the soles of my shoes. Row after row of brick buildings stretch out into the grey Lyon afternoon, their chimneys rising into the storm.Beyond the landing pad, near the main iron gates, three massive flatbed transport trucks remain parked in an impenetrable wall. Dozens of factory workers in dark blue coveralls stand shoulder to shoulder behind the iron bars, their arms crossed, their faces grim under the pouring rain.Outside the gate, the black sedans have pulled up and sit idling.My father steps out from the rear of the lead vehicle.He wears his double-breasted charcoal coat, an umbrella held over his head by an associate. His silver hair is dry, his leather gloves immaculate, his face holding the placid, unbothered expression of a man who