Semua Bab His fake wife, their real obsession: Bab 31 - Bab 40

Lydia’s POV The platinum-trimmed fountain pen felt heavy between my fingers, a cold anchor against the suffocating tension vibrating through the glass-walled boardroom. At the far end of the long mahogany table, Harrison, the Chief Financial Officer, cleared his throat. It was a dry, scraping sound that instantly drew twenty pairs of anxious eyes away from me and toward his end of the room. He didn’t look up from his screen. His fingers rapped a frantic, irregular rhythm against his tablet. "We need the final authorization token for the maritime insurance wire, Lydia," Harrison said, his voice tightly wound, bare of the usual deferential warmth he offered the CEO’s chair. "The Rotterdam freighter won't clear dock without the clearance code attached to the corporate black account. The port authority gave us a hard deadline of noon." "I am aware of the clock, Harrison." My voice cut through the low murmur of the room, steady and cool, though the back of my neck burned beneath

Lydia’s POVThe tires of two black sedans crunched heavily over the wet gravel outside the perimeter wall, the sound cutting through the quiet morning air of the Citadel. Inside the main courtyard, the wind caught the high leaves of the oak trees, sending a shower of cold droplets onto the hood of Zane’s truck. I stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the main pavilion, a warm mug of tea pressed between my palms, watching the dark vehicles approach the iron gates. They didn't have the markings of delivery vans, nor the sleek, low profiles of the cars Kian or Cassian favored. They were plain, unwashed, and official. From the sunlit playroom down the hall, the sharp, plastic click of building blocks echoed against the marble. Leo was humming a nonsensical tune, his small voice completely light and unburdened as he tried to construct a garage for his toy fire truck. The security monitors on the wal

Lydia’s POVThe heavy scent of heated beeswax drifted through the stillness of the study, sharp and dark. On the mahogany desk, a single white candle burned with a low, steady flame, its heat liquefying the solid stick of black paraffin held directly above it. A thick, dark droplet fell, hitting the crisp cream surface of a heavy cardstock envelope with a soft, heavy thud. I lowered the wax stick, picking up the heavy brass signet ring that had belonged to the Miller estate for three generations. I pressed the cold metal seal firmly into the center of the steaming black pool. The wax oozed out from beneath the edges, forming a stark, jagged border around the raised, gold-embossed lettering of the card underneath: THE ANNUAL SAPPHIRE CHARITY GALA. "She’s already booked the ballroom at the Grand Regency for the same night," Kian said from the leather armchair across the room. He didn't look up from his tablet, but his thumb made a sharp

Lydia’s POVThe sapphire glow from the triple-monitor array washed over the polished glass of the desk, turning the scattered paper ledgers a stark, pale blue.Inside the Citadel’s primary tech suite, the only sound was the rhythmic, muted clacking of Kian’s mechanical keyboard. Rows of green forensic data cascaded down his screens in an unyielding waterfall. A half-empty mug of black coffee sat frozen beside his mouse pad, the surface skin completely still.Across the room, Cassian traced the edge of the Persian rug, his massive combat boots leaving faint, heavy impressions in the thick wool. His tuxedo jacket hung over the back of a nearby leather chair; his white dress shirt was already unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled tightly over the dense, corded muscle of his forearms. Every third pace, he paused, his jaw working a sliver of a toothpick between his teeth as he glared through the reinforced glass toward the dark perimeter wall."It’s

Lydia’s POV The heavy bulletproof door of the obsidian Maybach swung open into a wall of blinding white light. Flashbulbs popped in violent, overlapping strobes, illuminating the dark slick of asphalt outside the Grand Regency Hotel. The roar of the crowd beyond the velvet ropes was deafening a chaotic surge of shouting reporters, camera shutters clicking like thousands of cicadas, and the low, rumbling hum of high-society spectators straining for a view. Cassian stepped out first. His massive frame immediately absorbed the brunt of the media frenzy. Draped in his custom black tuxedo, he didn't blink against the blinding glare. He extended one heavy, calloused hand back into the leather-scented interior of the car, his palm resting steady as an iron beam. I placed my fingers in his grip, stepping out onto the plush crimson carpet. The silk of my backless gown whispered against my legs, the