Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

Chapter 135: Guess Who Made The News?

ADRIEN’S POV

"Adrien?" Orion’s voice is lower this time, a slight note of concern creeping into his tone. "Your breathing is very shallow."

"I’m fine," I choke out, pressing my palm against my forehead. The skin feels clammy and ice-cold. "Just... a headache. A really bad one."

"We are almost there," Orion says softly. He reaches over again, his fingers resting gently on my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "A hot bath, some food, and a long sleep. You have been through a lot today. I shouldn’t have brought you to the docks."

"No," I whisper, staring out the front windshield as the massive wrought-iron gates of Orion’s estate come into view. "No, it’s fine."

Home.

The word stings like a fresh wound. I catch myself realizing, with a sick, twisting knot in my stomach, that over these past few weeks, I have actually started thinking of his massive, heavily guarded estate as my home. A place of safety. A place where the cold of the streets couldn’t touch me.

How broken am I?

The luxury car glides smoothly through the open gates, sweeping up the long, paved circular driveway surrounded by manicured lawns and towering stone walls.

Orion cuts the engine in front of the grand entrance. Before I can even reach for my door handle, he is already stepping out of the car. He walks around the sleek hood with long, effortless strides, opening my passenger door like a perfect gentleman.

He extends his hand toward me, his fingers warm, solid, and welcoming.

I stare at his open palm for a long fraction of a second before slowly placing my fingers inside his. Goosebumps break out all over my arms as his grip closes firmly around my hand, protective and unyielding.

He pulls me out of the vehicle with smooth grace, tucking my arm securely into his as he leads me up the marble steps of the front porch.

He acts like a loving, attentive husband taking care of his delicate spouse after a long, exhausting day out.

And then the heavy, crushing reality hits me right in the center of my chest.

We are married.

I am actually legally married to Orion Vassilis. I slept with him. I share his bed every single night. I wear his fucking name engraved on a heavy platinum band around my finger.

I must have completely lost my goddamn mind over these past few weeks to let this bloody arrangement become my new normal.

As we step into the grand foyer, the heavy oak doors swinging shut behind us with a soft, solid thud, the usual quiet atmosphere of the house feels completely wrong.

It is tense. Stifling.

Standing near the wide archway leading into the main living room are Alexis and one of Orion’s men.

Alexis looks visibly pale. His usual calm, sharp posture is rigid and stiff, his hands clenching and unclenching nervously at his sides. The very second the front doors close and our footsteps echo on the polished floorboards, Alexis’s gaze immediately shoots past Orion and lands directly on me.

There is intense, heavy concern in his eyes. Panic, even.

My stomach drops into a bottomless, dark pit. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong, and it is either coming directly from me, or it is about me.

Orion doesn’t seem to absorb the dangerous shift in the air right away. He keeps moving forward, his arm still tucked comfortably through mine, casually walking past Alexis into the grand living room.

"What is it, Alexis?" Orion asks, his voice still carrying that light, pleasant, serene tone from the drive home. "You look like someone died in the driveway."

Alexis doesn’t answer right away. He swallows hard, his jaw tight, before he turns his head slightly and gestures with a tense chin toward the giant, high-definition television screen mounted on the central wall of the living room.

The TV is turned on.

I freeze dead in the middle of the room. My hand slips slightly in Orion’s grip, but my fingers have gone completely numb as my eyes lock onto the glowing screen.

Pictures are flashing across the display in rapid, ruthless succession. High-resolution, bright, undeniable pictures.

Pictures of me.

My heart stops beating entirely. The air leaves my lungs in a single, silent gasp that burns my throat.

They are photographs from my seven years on the street. Photos of me standing in dark, trash-strewn back alleys, wearing threadbare, revealing clothes.

Photos of me sitting on the edge of dirty, stained mattresses in low-rent motels. Photos of me surrounded by older, slimy men in shadowy, underground bars. Photos of me leaning into car windows on dark street corners.

At the bottom of the screen, a bright, blood-red banner flashes with bold, aggressive text—

SPECIAL SCANDAL REPORT: THE VASSILIS SECRET.

The sharp, professional voice of a female newscaster echoes through the vast, quiet living room, smooth, crisp, and utterly cold.

"We break into our regular afternoon broadcasting with a shocking revelation surrounding the newly announced, highly secretive marriage of Orion Vassilis— heir to the Vassilis empire and prominent international business mogul," the newscaster reads, her tone dripping with manufactured dramatic intrigue.

"Documented evidence has just emerged proving that Mr. Vassilis has been thoroughly tricked, manipulated, and hoodwinked by Adrien Dubois, an infamous runaway from the Dubois family."

A new set of photos appears on the screen. Me, shivering outside a sleazy nightclub seven years ago. Me, taking crumpled cash from a stranger’s hand. Me, lying on a sofa in a brothel waiting for the next door to open.

"Sources confirm that before his sudden, astounding emergence into high society as the legal spouse of Orion Vassilis, young Adrien spent three long years operating as a low-level male prostitute in the city’s poorest, most dangerous districts," the reporter continues without skipping a beat.

My vision edges into a strange, suffocating fog.

The sound of the TV begins to feel far away, muffled and echoing, like I am standing at the bottom of a deep, dark well, looking up at a tiny circle of light.

The massive living room around me fades into a blurred, distant background. I am no longer standing on my own two feet in Orion’s house. I am floating somewhere high above the floor, watching the nightmare unfold from a distance.