Owned by the Billionaire's Heart のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

The cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows pressed against my lower back as Dante closed the remaining fraction of space between us. The city lights cast a fractured, amber pattern across his sharp cheekbones and the damp strands of hair falling over his forehead."Look at me," he commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried an absolute authority that demanded total surrender.My eyes locked onto his, dilated and dark in the dim room. The adrenaline from the harbor chase had completely morphed into a heavy, liquid heat pooling deep within my core. Every inch of my skin felt hypersensitive, alive to the friction of his damp shirt brushing against my collarbone.Dante didn't wait for permission. His hands moved with deliberate, agonizing slowness, gripping the hem of my ruined jacket and sliding it off my shoulders. It hit the hardwood floor with a soft rustle, followed quickly by the remaining barriers of our clothes. The raw, unfiltered air of the penthouse kissed m

The private chapel at the Moreno estate was less a place of worship and more a cathedral of quiet power, walled in dark Belgian slate and illuminated by towering wrought-iron candelabras. Outside, a heavy autumn rain lashed relentlessly against the stained-glass windows, casting distorted crimson and emerald shadows across the polished flagstone floor. Inside, the air was dead and cool, smelling faintly of old beeswax and white lilies.There were no guests. No cheering family members, no society friends holding champagne flutes, and no bridesmaids whispering behind cupped hands. This wasn't a wedding; it was a coronation, a quiet acquisition signed in secret and sealed in stone.I stood before the marble altar draped in a gown that felt less like clothing and more like a shroud of spun silk and crushed diamonds. Madame Dubois had spent four hours carving me into the ideal image of a billionaire’s bride hair pinned in heavy, immaculate waves, skin powdered to porcelain perfection, eyes

The heavy warmth of his kiss lingered on my lips long after he pulled back, leaving my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Dante didn't press his advantage further; instead, his hands slid from the glass to frame my face, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle across my cheekbone before he dropped his arms and stepped back. The sudden loss of his body heat left a chilling void in its place, making me shiver as the cool draft from the windows hit my skin."Get some rest, Elena," he commanded quietly, turning his back and walking toward the adjoining private study without looking over his shoulder. "Tomorrow, the press cycle begins. You will need your strength."The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut, leaving me alone in the dim expanse of the master bedroom. I sank slowly down against the glass pane, pulling my knees up to my chest as the adrenaline finally drained from my veins, leaving behind a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. I had survived the wedding, but the war for my

The red tally light on top of the studio camera flickered, blinked once, and died."And we're clear!" the floor manager called out, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the soundstage. Instantly, the illusion of a fairy-tale media romance evaporated into the sterile air of the lower gallery. Crew members swarmed in like ants, dismantling tripods, snapping shut equipment cases, and coiling heavy black cables across the polished concrete floor.Dante didn't release me. If anything, his grip tightened on my hip, his long fingers pressing through the rich red silk of my dress with a possessive, anchoring heat that made it impossible to step away without making a scene. He turned me slightly toward him, shielding my body from the lingering glances of the production staff, his dark obsidian eyes sweeping over my face with intense, unblinking scrutiny."You were extraordinary," Dante murmured, his voice a low, gravelly baritone meant only for my ears. A faint, dark smirk touched th

The seventy-second-floor executive boardroom was a monument to cold corporate intimidation. Walls of smoke-tinted glass framed an unyielding panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, while a massive, slab-like conference table of black polished granite dominated the center of the room. Seated around it were a dozen senior executives and regional directors from Moreno Holdings sharks in bespoke suits who viewed corporate acquisitions as blood sport.I sat near the head of the table, dressed in a sharp, structured charcoal pantsuit, every button fastened like armor. Before each director lay a glossy, heavy-stock portfolio detailing the finalized master blueprints for the downtown sustainable complex and the waterfront district.Dante sat at the absolute head of the table. He hadn't touched a single document in front of him; instead, his arms were rested casually on the granite, his dark obsidian eyes locked onto me with a calm, predatory intensity. He was giving me the floor, but he was