Lahat ng Kabanata ng Used by my billionaire boss: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

The mansion’s grand clock chimed midnight, its hollow echoes reverberating through the marble halls. Stephanie sat at the edge of her gilded bed, her fingers trembling as they traced the embossed patterns of the marriage contract she’d signed months ago—a document she’d naively believed was a formality. Moonlight sliced through the velvet curtains, casting jagged shadows over the words she now scrutinized, though their true meaning had always been just beyond her grasp. A sharp rap at the door shattered the silence. Before she could rise, it swung open, revealing Leon’s mother, Marguerite Vanclair, her silhouette framed like a blade in the doorway. Her ice-blonde hair was coiled into a flawless chignon, her charcoal suit tailored to intimidate. The air thickened with the cloying scent of jasmine perfume. “You,” Marguerite spat, striding forward, her stiletto heels striking the floor like gunshots. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out about your little *performance* at the gala?”

The digital clock on Stephanie’s nightstand blinked *3:47 AM* in blood-red numerals. She lay perfectly still, her hand resting on the swell of her abdomen, counting the baby’s kicks like seconds ticking down on a bomb. *Two days.* Jake’s last message burned in her mind: *“Safe house secured. Be ready to move.”* But the Vanclair estate had become a fortress—cameras in every corner, guards patrolling the gardens, and Leon’s suspicion sharpening into something violent. She slid out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cold marble. In the ensuite bathroom, she locked the door and crouched beside the vanity, her trembling fingers prying up a loose floor tile. Beneath it lay her lifeline: a burner phone, a stack of forged medical documents, and a lockpick hidden inside a tampon applicator. Jake’s voice echoed in her memory from their last coded call: *“Fake the appointment. They’ll expect a trap—so give them a better one.”* ---**9:15 AM** “I need to see Dr. Voss *now*,” Stephanie gasp

Coastal Haven, Maine — Present Day The salt-tinged air of Harbor’s Edge stung Stephanie’s cheeks as she trudged up the gravel path to the Seashell Inn, her new workplace. The small coastal town was a far cry from Leon’s glass-and-steel empire in New York—here, the ocean roared louder than paparazzi, and the only flashing lights came from the lighthouse piercing the fog. She adjusted the scratchy wool scarf over her hair, a makeshift disguise, though no one in this sleepy town would recognize “Clara Evans,” the name Jake had forged for her. “Morning, Clara!” Mia Callahan, the inn’s heavily pregnant owner, waved from the porch, her auburn curls bouncing. “Brought you a blueberry muffin. Fresh from the oven.” Stephanie forced a smile. Mia’s kindness was a lifeline, but it also felt like a betrayal. *She doesn’t know I’m lying to her. That I’m not Clara.* “Thanks, Mia. You didn’t have to—” “Nonsense. You’re eating for two now.” Mia patted Stephanie’s barely visible bump, her green

Leon stood in the center of Stephanie’s empty apartment, the silence gnawing at him. The space felt hollow, stripped of the warmth she’d once brought to it. Her lavender-scented candles were gone. The photos of sunsets she’d tacked to the fridge had vanished. All that remained was a single coffee mug in the sink, a ghost of her presence. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his gray eyes scanning the room for the hundredth time, as if she might materialize if he stared hard enough. He hadn’t meant to come here. But after three weeks of her absence, the weight of his mistakes had driven him to her doorstep. He knelt beside the trash bin, sifting through discarded takeout containers and crumpled receipts, his throat tightening when his fingers brushed against a small plastic bottle. He pulled it out, squinting at the label. *Prenatal vitamins*. The words punched through him like a blade. A memory flashed—Stephanie’s breathless laugh the morning after their one-night stand, her

Leon’s shoes slapped against the hospital linoleum as he sprinted down the hallway. The NICU alarm blared in his ears, mixing with the frantic pounding of his heart. He skidded to a stop outside the glass doors, his breath ragged. Through the window, Adriana stood over the incubator, a syringe poised above his daughter’s fragile body. Time slowed. Twenty-two years old, stiff in his first tailored tuxedo, Leon gripped a champagne flute like it might shatter. The gala buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, but he felt out of place—a boy playing CEO. Then he saw her. Adriana Montgomery, draped in a red dress that seemed to laugh at the room’s austerity. She plucked a strawberry from a passing tray and bit into it, juice staining her lips as she caught his stare. “You look like someone died,” she said, smirking. “Did your tailor?”* Leon shook off the memory, slamming his fist against the NICU door. “Adriana! Open it!” She turned, her almond eyes cold. The syringe hovered. ---