All Chapters of The Billionaire's Exchanged Bride : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Third person pov ~The sheet dropped from Ethan’s trembling fingers. The figure lying on the stretcher was unidentifiable by sight—the crash had left nothing that could be recognized with human eyes. The forensic team gently pulled the white fabric back into place, but Ethan stood frozen in the cold dimness of the tent, staring at the empty space as if his soul had been forcefully ripped from his body."Mr. Vaughn," the lead examiner said, his tone low and sympathetic. "Preliminary teeth matches and personal effects retrieved from the wreckage belong to a passenger named Ariana Vane. We will run the formal DNA sequence against your submitted samples, but... legally and practically, the confirmation is complete."Ethan didn't hear him. The world had turned into a hollow, deafening void. He turned slowly, stepping out of the tent into the freezing night air. Marcus rushed forward, holding out a coat, but Ethan brushed past him like a ghost, his eyes dull, lifeless, and empty.***Six M

Ariana pov ~"Welcome to Northlight Publishing, Miss Vance. The desk is yours."The words echoed in my ears long after Leo Sterling—the brilliant, sharp-witted young head of Toronto's premier independent publishing house—handed me a silver pen and walked back into his glass-walled corner office. I stood in the center of the sleek, sunlit lobby, holding my official employee badge against my chest. My hands were shaking, but for the first time in over two years, it wasn't from terror or grief. It was from pure, unadulterated joy. I had done it. After weeks of agonizing rejections, counting every cent in my bank account, and fighting off the dark shadows of my past, I was officially hired as the executive secretary to Leo Sterling. I pulled out my phone and dialed Julian immediately, stepping over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Toronto. "Julian!" I practically beamed into the receiver, unable to keep the breathless laugh from escaping my lips. "I got it! I got

Ariana pov ~The fifth-floor breakroom at Northlight Publishing was an absolute chaotic zoo at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning. "I am telling you right now, Vance, if Sterling rejects my manuscript edit one more time, I'm jumping out of the third-floor window," Chloe declared dramatically, slamming a bright pink mug onto the counter beside the coffee machine. She was an associate fiction editor with wild curly hair, three empty energy drink cans on her desk, and a flair for theatrical misery. "He told me my chapter four pacing felt like 'a sluggish turtle trying to cross a muddy swamp in winter.' Who even says that?!"I couldn't help the warm, bubbling laugh that escaped my lips as I carefully arranged a tower of color-coded manuscript folders in my arms. "He isn't that terrifying, Chloe. He just likes things done precisely. He wants the prose to punch.""Not terrifying?" Marcus—the lead graphic designer, who was currently bent double over the mini-fridge searching for his lost oat

Ariana ~The breakroom of Northlight Publishing on a Friday afternoon was a glorious, utter disaster. "If anyone touches my garlic-and-herb pita chips, I will personally sabotage their manuscript submissions for the entire fourth quarter," Chloe announced, pointing a plastic fork menacingly at Marcus while she leaned against the counter. "Nobody wants your garlic chips, Chloe, they smell like an exorcism," Marcus replied smoothly, popping a grape into his mouth as he leaned against the water cooler. He turned his attention to me, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, Vance. Word on the street is Sterling actually let you pick the dessert caterer for the Autumn Gala next week. Is this true, or are my sources lying to me?"I couldn't help the bright laugh that bubbled up from my chest as I neatly arranged a tray of herbal teas for the editorial team. "Your sources are fifty percent accurate. He let me choose between dark chocolate mousse and raspberry tartlets. I chose the tart

Ariana ~By five o'clock in the afternoon, the bustling editorial floor of Northlight Publishing had slowly begun to drain. Editors packed their tote bags, designers shut down their monitors, and the cheerful hum of weekend chatter faded out into the quiet evening air. I sat at my secretary's desk outside Leo’s office, staring blankly at the computer screen. My head felt like it was packed with heavy cotton, and my skin felt hot and clammy. Another wave of violent nausea hit my throat. I scrambled out of my swivel chair, clutching my stomach, and barely made it into the executive restroom before another terrible bout of dry heaving racked my entire body. I gripped the cool porcelain basin, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. There was nothing left in my stomach to throw up, but the agonizing contractions refused to stop. "Just... just severe stress," I rasped to my pale, ghostly reflection in the mirror, wiping cold sweat from my upper lip with a paper towel. "It's just exhausti