All Chapters of I Was Hired To Seduce My Boss : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Liam The rain has not stopped for three days. It falls in sheets, relentless and grey, turning the world outside the cottage windows into a watercolour blur of green and silver. I stand at the glass, watching the droplets race each other down the pane, and I feel the weight of the past few days pressing against my shoulders like a physical presence. Zoe is asleep. She has been sleeping more since we returned from Marcus's, as if her body is finally processing the weight of what we discovered. The truth about Eleanor's father. The truth about the man who has been watching from the shadows. The truth about the legacy that has been chasing her family for generations. I turn from the window and walk to the small desk in the corner of the room. The letter from Marcus sits open, its edges already soft from being folded and unfolded. I read it again, my eyes tracing the familiar words, searching for something I might have missed. She was not running from Viktor. She was running from h

LiamThe door swings shut behind us, and the sound of it echoes through the empty foyer like a stone dropped into still water. I feel Zoe tense beside me, her fingers tightening around mine, and I squeeze back, a silent reassurance that I am here. I am not going anywhere.The man with silver hair and sharp grey eyes leads us through the house, his footsteps echoing against the worn wooden floors. The air is thick with dust and the faint scent of old paper, and I feel the weight of decades pressing down on us from all sides.He stops in a room at the end of the hall, a study lined with bookshelves and filled with the soft glow of a single lamp. He gestures for us to sit, and I lower myself onto a worn armchair, Zoe beside me, her hand still in mine."Zoe," he says, his voice low and steady. "I have been waiting a long time for this moment.""Why?" she asks, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Why now?"He is silent for a long moment, his grey eyes fixed on her. "Because

LiamThe photograph trembles in my grip, its edges worn smooth by years of handling, its surface creased with the memory of countless fingers. I stare at the image, at the woman standing in the garden, her hand resting on the shoulder of the young girl beside her. Eleanor. Zoe. They are smiling, their faces bright with a joy I have never seen in either of them.But it is not the women who hold my attention. It is the figure in the background, barely visible through the foliage, his face half-obscured by shadow. I know that posture. I know the way he stands, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. I have seen it in my own reflection, in the mirror that hangs in the hallway of my childhood home.My father."Liam?" Zoe's voice cuts through the silence. "What is it?"I look up, my dark eyes meeting her grey ones. "Your mother knew my father. She knew him well."The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. Zoe takes the photograph from my hands, her fingers brushin

LiamThe silence in the cottage is not the same as it was before. It is not heavy with secrets or choked with things left unsaid. It is the silence of two people who have finally stopped running, who have laid their cards on the table and are learning to breathe again.I sit at the table, the letters spread before me like a map of a past I never knew existed. The ink is faded, the paper worn, but the words are still sharp, still cutting. My father's handwriting. Eleanor's handwriting. Two people who loved each other and kept it hidden from everyone, even from themselves.I trace the curve of a letter, my finger following the path of his pen. He wrote with urgency, the words pressed deep into the paper as if he was afraid they would not be read.If you are reading this, I am already gone. I am sorry for the secrets. I am sorry for the lies. I am sorry I could not protect you.I fold the letter and set it aside. The weight of it is small, but the weight of its meaning is not.Zoe is sle

Liam The wooden box sits on the table between us, its surface worn smooth by years of handling, its contents finally at rest. I trace the edge of the lid with my finger, feeling the grain of the wood, the small imperfections that tell the story of its journey. Inside are the letters, the photographs, the fragments of a past that no longer hold power over us. Zoe is beside me, her hand resting on the box, her grey eyes fixed on the closed lid. She does not speak, but I feel the weight of her presence, the quiet strength of her companionship. We have been through so much together, have carried so many burdens, and have uncovered so many secrets. And now, we are finally ready to set them down. "Liam," she says, her voice soft. "What happens now?" I turn to look at her, at the woman who has become my reason, my purpose, my home. "Now we live. We build. We choose who we want to be." She meets my gaze, her grey eyes steady. "And who do you want to be?" I reach out and take her hand, m