Semua Bab Betrayed : His Plus-Size Wife's Revenge : Bab 11 - Bab 20

The heavy silence inside the sleek black sedan felt thick, almost suffocating, as the city lights blurred into long streaks of golden light outside the window. Clara pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her chest heaving with lingering, quiet sobs. The faint, pale mark left on her ring finger was a bitter reminder of five years sacrificed to a man who had ultimately deemed her worthless.Beside her, Damon sat like an imposing statue carved from obsidian. One of his long arms was casually extended along the back of her leather seat, an invisible yet absolute boundary that kept her firmly within his realm. He didn't force her into conversation, but the warmth radiating from his body and the subtle, intoxicating scent of dark sandalwood filled every inch of the quiet cabin."Where are we going, Damon?" Clara’s voice broke the silence, sounding raspy and hollowed out by the emotional storm. "I need to find a hotel. I can't possibly...""You are not going to a hotel,

​The silence of the penthouse during the day was a stark contrast to the chaotic emotional storm brewing in Clara’s chest. Without the towering presence of Damon commanding the space, Clara spent hours walking across the marble floors, running her fingers over the sleek glass surfaces, and staring out at the endless city skyline below.​She felt like a ghost caught between two worlds—the agonizing past she had left behind in ruins, and an uncertain future bound tightly to a man whose love felt less like an offer and more like an inescapable decree.​Around mid-afternoon, the quiet was shattered by the rhythmic chime of the private entrance. Clara turned quickly, half-expecting Damon to walk in early, but instead, the elevator doors parted to reveal a sharp, middle-aged woman dressed in an immaculate charcoal pantsuit. Behind her walked a young assistant carrying a heavy leather briefcase.​"Good afternoon, Mrs. Vance—or rather, Ms. Clara," the woman said, stepping into t

Damon’s footsteps were silent across the plush carpet as he approached Clara, who stood frozen, gazing at the city landscape from behind the floor-to-ceiling glass. The silence inside the penthouse felt heavy, thick with the lingering shock and emotional turbulence of the previous night. Without a word, Damon closed the distance from behind. His powerful arms wrapped around Clara’s waist, interlocking his fingers just above her stomach. It was a tight, protective hold that felt like an absolute lock. He rested his chin on her shoulder, letting his warm, steady breath brush against her neck. "Your trembling still hasn't stopped, Clara," Damon whispered. His voice was low, sounding like the soft rumble of a predator soothing its prey. Clara closed her eyes, resting the back of her head against the broad chest behind her. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, Damon. In twenty-four hours, the life I spent five years building vanished into nothing." "Not vanished," Damon softly corre

"Get down!" Damon roared, his voice cutting through the shattered silence of the VIP suite.*BANG! BANG! BANG!*A volley of silenced gunshots shattered the heavy glass panels of the hospital room, showering the polished floor with razor-sharp shards. Despite the agony tearing through his freshly stitched chest, Damon reacted with terrifying, primal instinct. He lunged out of the hospital bed, wrapping his broad body around Clara, slamming her onto the cold marble behind the heavy mahogany desk just as a spray of bullets tore through his abandoned pillows."Damon! Your wounds!" Clara gasped, her hands instinctively clutching his blood-stained hospital gown."Focus, Clara!" Damon hissed through gritted teeth, his dark eyes ablaze with lethal focus. He ripped the IV line from his arm without flinching, ignoring the trickle of blood running down his wrist. "They aren't here to negotiate!"*BANG!*The heavy oak door of the room was kicked open, splintering off its hinges. Two masked men dr

The sharp, biting scent of medical antiseptics slowly faded, replaced by the warm, gentle fragrance of lavender oil and pine wood. Damon’s private villa by the lake—once damaged and left in ruins—had been fully restored, transformed into a secluded sanctuary protected by the most advanced security systems available. The storm of conspiracy woven by General Arthur Sterling and the Kaelen Consortium had finally passed. Justice had prevailed, yet the scars left behind on Damon’s body and soul still demanded time and care to heal.Inside the spacious upper-floor master bedroom, overlooking the calm surface of the lake, silence hung heavy and soothing. Damon lay resting on a king-sized bed, sterile bandages still wrapped firmly around his chest and right shoulder. Just two days prior, he had undergone critical surgery to clean deep infections and repair torn muscle tissue sustained during the confrontation in the server room. The operation had been a success, but the physical toll left the