Todos los capítulos de married for show : Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

​The flight to Portland was a suffocating experience. Every time my phone buzzed with a generic email notification, my heart spiked, only to crash again when I saw it wasn't a text from Leo. Why did he leave? Was the sex bad? Did I overstep by suggesting we make the night worth it? The questions clawed at my brain, looping in a frantic, uncharacteristic rhythm. I had never spent a second overthinking a man in my life—I was the girl who treated dating like a low-priority project—yet here I was, paralyzed by the mystery of his sudden absence. It was affecting my focus, my pace, my very ability to function. ​"Chloe, focus," Julian’s voice snapped, cutting through my spiraling thoughts as we stepped into the lobby of the Portland hotel. He stood rigid, his charcoal suit immaculate, his eyes sharp with an impatience that felt like a whip. "You’ve checked that phone four times in the last three minutes. If you’re waiting for a call, do it on your own time. Right now, I need you to confirm

Julian’s POV ​I didn’t go back to the hotel to sleep. I went back because the suite felt like a hollow shell without the sharp, persistent energy Chloe brought into every room. When she’d sent that text—feeling unwell—my first instinct was irritation. I didn't hire an assistant to be "unwell." But as I sat in the boardroom, staring at the empty chair beside me, the irritation had transmuted into something colder. A restlessness that felt dangerously like concern. ​I didn't care about the investors or their lukewarm platitudes. My mind was back in the suite the night before, watching her face soften as she talked about hydrangeas, seeing the way she looked at me—not as a boss, but as a person. ​I didn't knock. I used the master keycard. ​The room was bathed in the bruising purple of the Portland midnight. She was curled on the edge of the oversized bed, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline, her breathing hitching in a way that signaled she had been fighting a losing battl

​A full week had passed since Portland. Seven days of silence that felt less like a professional hiatus and more like a vacuum, sucking the air out of the office and leaving me to suffocate in the stagnant stillness. ​I had replayed that night in the hotel suite until the memory was frayed at the edges. I had memorized the way his breath hitched, the exact pressure of his hands against my back, the startling, uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes before he’d leaned in. And then, the abrupt, sterile text message that had sent me home alone to a house that suddenly felt way too big and entirely too empty. ​I’d spent the week bracing myself. I’d practiced calm, collected greetings in the bathroom mirror. I’d prepared a mental script for when I inevitably ran into him: "Good morning, Mr. Thorne. I hope Zurich was productive." Simple, detached, perfectly professional. I was going to be the embodiment of cool. I was going to be the assistant who didn't remember that a week ago, her boss

(Julian’s POV) ​The silence in my home was never peaceful; it was heavy, suffocating, and designed to remind me of exactly what I was trapped in. ​I walked into the foyer of my estate, the click of my shoes on the marble sounding like gunshots in the stillness. My house was a minimalist monument to success, all sharp angles, cold glass, and neutral tones. It was exactly like the office, except here, there was no paperwork to hide behind. ​Elena was in the living room, a glass of scotch already in her hand. She was as striking as the day I married her, her beauty a sharp, jagged weapon she knew how to wield with surgical precision. It had been two years since the finalization of our divorce, two years since she had decided that the man she was sleeping with was more exciting than the husband who had built her an empire. She had burned it all down, demanded the split, and yet, here we were—still cohabitating in this beautiful, expensive tomb. Neither of us had the spine to be the one

Chloe’s POV ​Saturday afternoon was a sensory sanctuary of soft tulle, shimmering sequins, and absolute, glorious chaos. ​Maya and I had commandeered the VIP fitting room at one of the upscale boutiques downtown. Racks of dresses—midnight blue, champagne gold, emerald silk—lined the walls, and the air smelled faintly of expensive hairspray and teenage excitement. Maya had already tried on four different gowns, spinning in front of the three-way mirror with dramatic sighs while I critiqued the silhouettes with the seriousness of a seasoned fashion editor. ​"Okay, but this one," Maya declared, emerging from the dressing room in a sweeping, midnight-blue halter dress that caught the light like starlight. "If this doesn't make the student council president regret everything, nothing will." ​I laughed, clapping my hands from the plush velvet sofa. "It’s stunning, Maya. Truly. You look like you’re about to walk a red carpet, not a high school gym floor." ​She beamed, striking a pose b