Semua Bab I REGRET GETTING MARRIED TO A MOMMY'S BOY CEO: Bab 21 - Bab 30

The seaside village of Blackwood Haven smelled of crushed brine, wet pine, and baking yeast. It was a place untouched by high-rise boardrooms or glossy society columns, a jagged strip of gray coastline where the sea clawed endlessly at the cliffs. For two weeks, I lived strictly by the rhythm of the tide and the dawn opening of the bakery downstairs. Mrs. Gable, a widow with broad hands and silver hair pulled into a tight bun, ran the bakery on the ground floor. She hadn't asked questions when I showed up with a waterlogged duffel bag and a wad of crumpled bills, asking if the small attic room above the kitchen was available. She had simply looked at my hollow cheeks, my dark under-eye circles, and the cautious way I wrapped my arms around my waist, then handed me the key and a warm loaf of sourdough. Every morning at 5:00 a.m., I went down to the kitchen to help her knead dough in exchange for a reduction in my modest rent. The repetitive, physical work anchored me. My hands grew c

The storm hit Blackwood Haven at dusk, burying the jagged coastline under three feet of drifting snow. By midnight, the power grid along the bay failed. The gale-force winds blew through the frame of the old building, causing the glass panes in my small attic window to rattle continuously. I woke at 2:00 a.m. to a sharp, knife-like pain low in my back. I gasped, sitting up in the dark, clutching the thin quilt to my chest. The room was freezing, my breath blooming into thick white clouds in the dim air. I waited, counting the seconds in my head, praying it was just a braxton-hicks contraction from the biting cold. Three minutes later, another wave hit, stronger, tightening around my midsection like a vice, forcing a ragged groan from my throat. I was only thirty-four weeks along. Panic, icy and sharp, flooded my veins. *It’s too early,* my mind screamed as I swung my legs over the side of the narrow mattress. *It’s too early.* When I stood up, a warm gush of fluid soaked throug

The wind howled through the narrow alley, driving dry snow against the thick wood of the back door like handfuls of sand.I stared at the glossy pages of the magazine resting on the flour-dusted prep table. The photograph was artistic, beautifully composed and a death warrant for the life I had built over the last five months.“How long do I have?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the hum of the woodstove.David checked his watch, his knuckles white against the strap of his camera bag. “The distributor ships nationwide by five this morning. By noon, copies will be sitting in newsstands across the capital. If Eleanor’s media team has an automated sweep set for your likeness or the regional tags... someone could be on a plane by nightfall.”I looked down at Clara. She was three days old, weighing barely six pounds, her skin still soft and delicate as flower petals. Taking a newborn out into a blizzard was reckless. Staying was suicide.“I’m coming with you to the station,” David sai

Victoria moved through the Marble corridors of the Hartwell Group headquarters with the predatory speed of a fox in a hen house.Two hours after the boardroom meeting adjourned, she slipped into the private office of Marcus Vance, the chief of security Richard had put in charge of the Blackwood Haven operation. Marcus was a former state investigator whose loyalty had been bought with a six-figure salary and a corner apartment downtown.He stood up from his desk as Victoria locked the door behind her.“Mrs. Hartwell,” Marcus said, bowing his head slightly. “The team is fueling the SUVs now. We should be on the coast by dusk.”Victoria didn't answer right away. She walked to his window, watching the street traffic forty floors below, her leather handbag hanging loosely over her arm.“Marcus,” she said softly, her voice smooth as dark velvet. “How long have you worked for Eleanor?”“Six years, ma'am.”“And in those six years, how many times has she blamed you when one of her personal err

The atmosphere inside the Hartwell estate had deteriorated from a quiet cold war into an open, chaotic nightmare.It was eleven o'clock on a torrential Thursday night. Rain slammed against the tall leaded-glass windows of the grand salon, mirroring the volatile fury taking place inside.Eleanor stood near the marble hearth, her knuckles white around the handle of her polished walking stick. Across the room, Victoria was unceremoniously pacing behind the massive mahogany desk, reviewing board proxies on her tablet and issuing orders to Richard as if the matriarch were invisible.“You have no authority to reshuffle the senior vice presidents before the quarterly gala, Victoria!” Eleanor’s sharp voice cracked through the cavernous room.Victoria didn't even look up from her screen. “I have forty-four percent of the voting stock, Eleanor. My father holds another ten. That gives me all the authority I need to sweep out your aging lapdogs and replace them with people who actually understand