All Chapters of I Was Hired To Seduce My Boss : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Liam The cottage door swings inward on rusted hinges, and the smell of damp wood and cold ash rushes out to meet us. I step across the threshold, my boots scraping against the worn floorboards, and I feel the years of neglect pressing in from every corner. Eleanor is already inside, her silhouette a dark cutout against the dim light filtering through grime-caked windows. She has been hiding here for weeks, perhaps months. The dust on the furniture tells its own story—a story of isolation, of a woman who has been waiting for something she can not name. I watch her move through the space with the careful precision of someone who has spent a lifetime treading lightly, as if the ground beneath her feet might give way at any moment. Zoe follows me inside, her grey eyes scanning the room, cataloguing every detail. I see her fingers brush against the edge of a worn table, her thumb tracing a groove in the wood as if she is reading a language written in scars. She is searching for the trut

Liam The hinges of the cottage door complain as I push it open, a thin whine that cuts through the morning stillness like a blade. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and old paper, and I find Eleanor standing by the window, her silhouette sharp against the pale light filtering through the glass. She turns when she hears me, and I notice the way her fingers grip the edge of the windowsill, as if she is holding onto something that might otherwise slip away. Zoe is already at the table, a cup of tea cradled between her palms. She looks up as I enter, and I see the question in her eyes before she speaks it. "Are you ready?" she asks. I am not sure what she is asking. Ready for what? The truth? The confrontation? The next chapter of a story I never wanted to be part of? But I nod anyway because readiness is not about certainty. It is about willingness to face whatever comes. "I am," I say. Eleanor finally turns from the window, her hands falling to her sides. Her gre

Liam The cold water hits my face like a slap, and I grip the edges of the sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. The man staring back at me is a stranger—dark circles carved beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, a jaw tight with tension that has not eased in days. I do not recognize him. I do not want to. I have been standing here for minutes and hours, I can not tell. The water drips from my chin, pooling on the worn wooden counter, and I watch the drops fall with a kind of detached fascination. Each one is a small death, a tiny surrender to gravity. I hear movement in the other room, the soft pad of bare feet on the floorboards, and I know it is Zoe. I know the rhythm of her steps, the weight of her presence, the way the air changes when she enters a room. She has become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, and that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could. I dry my face with a rough towel and walk out to the main room. She is standing by the windo

Liam The rain has stopped, but the air is still heavy, thick with the scent of wet earth and pine. I stand at the window, watching the last droplets slide down the glass like tears I refuse to shed. Behind me, Zoe sleeps, her breathing finally even, her body no longer burning with fever. She is healing. She is safe. But the fear lingers, a cold knot in my chest that refuses to loosen. I turn from the window and walk to the bed. She looks small against the pillows, her dark hair fanned across the white fabric, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks. I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering on the warmth of her skin. Her eyes flutter open, and I see the recognition dawn in them, the softness that comes only when she looks at me. "Liam," she whispers. "I am here." She reaches for me, her fingers curling around my wrist, pulling me closer. I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, my weight dipping the mattress, and she shifts toward me, her body se

LiamThe hinges of the cottage door protest as I push it open, a thin whine that cuts through the morning stillness. I step onto the porch, and the cold air hits my face like a splash of ice water, sharp and bracing. The fields stretch out before me, cloaked in a thin layer of frost that catches the first light of dawn, turning the world into a mosaic of silver and shadow. I breathe in, and the sharpness of it fills my lungs, chasing away the remnants of sleep.Zoe is still inside, asleep in the room we now share. The ring glints on her finger when she moves, a small beacon in the darkness, and I find myself drawn back to her like a moth to a flame I can not resist. But I need this moment alone. I need to feel the cold and remind myself that I am still standing.I walk to the edge of the garden, where the bulbs are buried deep, waiting for spring. The earth is hard, frozen, but I know that beneath it, something is stirring. Something patient and persistent. Something that will not be