บททั้งหมดของ The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

DAMIEN~I stood on the second floor balcony, coffee cooling in my hand as I watched her through the morning mistAngel had found her way to the eastern garden, where the landscaping transitioned from formal arrangements to more natural plantings. She'd settled on a stone bench beneath the oak my mother had insisted on preserving when we renovated the grounds, her sketchbook balanced on her knees, pencil moving with confident strokes.She was talented. I'd known this instinctively upon seeing her callused fingers, but observing her work confirmed it. Even from this distance, I could see how her body language changed when she drew, her usual hesitancy replaced by purpose, her movements fluid and decisive.I hadn't meant to watch her for so long. Three urgent emails awaited responses, the Tokyo market had fluctuated unexpectedly overnight, and Marco was due to report on the Sinclair investigation within the hour. Yet I remained, coffee forgotten, studying the woman who had unwittingly

I exited through the front entrance and made my way down the long drive to the security gate where Sinclair's BMW was parked. He stood arguing with the security guard, his gestures animated and increasingly aggressive."That's my wife in there!!!" I heard him shout as I approached. "You can't keep me from seeing her!""Ex wife." I corrected coldly, making my presence known. "Or soon to be. I understand the divorce papers have been filed. By you."Sinclair turned, his expression shifting from anger to calculated charm with practiced ease. "Mr. Salvatore, I presume? I just want to talk to Angel. Clear up some misunderstandings."I studied him with clinical detachment. He was conventionally attractive in an unremarkable way—medium height, decent physique, the kind of generic good looks that belonged in mid-range men's fashion catalogs. Nothing about him explained the devotion Angel had given him."There are no misunderstandings to clear up," I replied evenly. "You made your position abun

After he left, I tried to calm my racing thoughts with sketching. The familiar rhythm of pencil on paper usually centered me, but today my hand kept shaking, ruining the lines. Three hundred people. Three hundred wealthy, sophisticated people who would be judging me, analyzing my every word and gesture, looking for proof that I didn't belong in Damien's world.They'd be right, of course. I didn't belong. This was all pretense, an elaborately staged play for Sophia's benefit. Yet the thought of embarrassing Damien, of failing to maintain our charade convincingly, made my stomach knot with anxiety.By the time Natasha arrived with her assistants, I'd worked myself into a state of barely contained panic."What is this?" she demanded, pointing to my face. "Puffy eyes? Blotchy complexion? This is disaster before we even begin!"For the next three hours, I surrendered to her ministrations, facial masks, hair treatments, manicure, pedicure, makeup application so detailed it felt like paint

After Elena left, I took another steadying breath before returning to the ballroom. The speeches had begun, and I quietly slipped back into my seat beside Damien. Without looking at me, he reached under the table and squeezed my hand briefly, acknowledging my return.As the formal program concluded and guests began circulating again, Damien guided me toward the silent auction displays. We were examining a painting from an emerging artist when I felt a splash of cold liquid down my back, soaking through the thin silk of my dress.I gasped at the sudden chill, turning to find a woman in a red dress with an acidentally overturned wine glass."Oh my goodness I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, her tone dripping with false sincerity. "How terribly clumsy of me."Damien's response was immediate and controlled. "Accidents happen," he said smoothly, though his eyes had turned to ice. "If you'll excuse us."Without another word he guided me through the growing crowd of onlookers, his arm protectiv

Damien painted? The revelation was startling. I couldn't imagine those controlled, precise hands creating art, yet somehow it made perfect sense."How do you know if no one's allowed in?" I asked.Izzy shrugged, suddenly very interested in arranging her markers. "I might have looked when he was away on business once. Just a peek.""Izzy," I admonished gently, though curiosity burned through me."I know, I know. But they're really good! Dark and moody, but good." She gave me a sly look. "You should ask him to show you. He might, since you're getting married and all."The innocent comment was another reminder of the fragile fiction surrounding us. Before I could respond, Marco appeared in the doorway, his expression as inscrutable as ever."Miss Winters," he began formally. "A delivery has arrived for you.""For me?" I asked, confused. No one outside Damien's household even knew I was here."Yes. If you'll follow me."Izzy trailed behind us as Marco led the way to the front hall, where