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25. Trapped
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2025-06-08 22:25:53
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The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back 32. The Fears of the Past
Ella’s Point of ViewThe Seattle sunset painted the sky in hues of lavender and gold, its soft light filtering through my bedroom window, casting a warm glow over the life I’d built. Five years had slipped by since I’d fled to this city with Emerson, my father, escaping Marcus’s shadow and the terror of his pursuit. Against all odds, things had turned out better than I’d dared hope. Marcus had never found me, his hunters silenced by distance and time. My daughter, Lily, now five, was a radiant spark, her laughter a balm to the scars I carried. I’d thrown myself into my work at the hospital Emerson funded, reclaiming my identity as a doctor, my days filled with purpose. And, slowly, painfully, I’d forgiven Emerson. His genuine remorse for shattering my mother’s life had worn down my walls, a delicate process that left us on fragile but steady ground.I stood by the window, my damp hair loose after a shower, the scent of lavender soap lingering on my skin. The house—Emerson’s spacious
The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back 32. Difficult to Recover
Marcus’s Point of ViewThe Chicago skyline glittered beyond my penthouse window, a cold constellation of steel and glass that mirrored the ambition burning in my veins. I adjusted my cufflinks, the silver glinting under the chandelier’s glow, my tailored charcoal suit a armor for the battle ahead. Shawn Hayes, the billionaire investor my father, Joshua Carter, had pinned our hopes on, was the key to stabilizing Carter’s Wine. His wealth could shore up the company I’d nearly tanked, and today’s meeting at his mansion was my chance to prove I wasn’t the failure Joshua saw. But my mind wasn’t on wine or contracts—it was on Ella, always Ella, the ghost who’d haunted me for five years, her absence a wound I refused to let heal.I slid into my black Maserati, the engine’s purr a low growl as I pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, the city’s pulse humming around me. My phone buzzed, Theo’s name flashing on the screen. I answered, speaker mode crackling as his voice filled the car, all easy charm.
The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back 31. The Never Ending Obsession
Five Years Later Marcus’s Point of ViewThe Chicago sunrise spilled through the massive windows of my penthouse bedroom, its golden rays glinting off the polished oak floor, mocking the storm raging inside me. I stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting my silk tie with precise, angry tugs, my reflection a mask of control that barely concealed the chaos beneath. My navy suit was immaculate, tailored to perfection, but my eyes—bloodshot from sleepless nights and five years of relentless pursuit—betrayed me. “I hope you’re here to tell me you’re giving me back my CEO position at Carter’s Wine, Dad,” I said, my voice sharp, laced with a defiance I didn’t fully feel. Joshua Carter’s presence in my room this early meant trouble, and I braced for his lecture.“Not so fast, son,” Joshua replied, settling into a leather armchair nearby, his posture as polished as ever despite the silver strands creeping into his dark hair. My father, the patriarch of the Carter family, was a titan in b
The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back 30. Hope
Ella’s Point of ViewThe Parisian twilight cast a gentle veil over the city, the Eiffel Tower’s silhouette a quiet sentinel against the deepening sky, its lights flickering like a distant promise I couldn’t quite grasp. I stood on the narrow balcony of my hotel room, the evening breeze cool against my skin, my hand resting softly on my stomach, where my child—a secret I guarded fiercely—stirred within me. My blonde hair, cropped short to maintain my guise as Clara Rossi, danced under a loose scarf, a remnant of my desperate flight from Venice. I murmured, “We’re okay now, little one,” but the words felt fragile, a whisper against the truth that haunted me. A man like Marcus, with his vast resources and unrelenting drive, ensured I’d never truly be free.I gripped the balcony’s iron railing, my gaze lost in the tower’s glow, its elegance a stark contrast to the ache in my chest. Was this my fate—always running, always hiding, a shadow of the woman I’d been? The thought was a quiet wou
The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back 29. The Taste of Defeat
Marcus’s Point of ViewThe Venetian night was a cruel tease, its canals shimmering under the moon like a mirror of my failure. I stood at the edge of a deserted calle in Cannaregio, my breath ragged, my navy coat damp with mist as I scanned the shadows for her—Ella, my wife, who’d slipped through my fingers just hours ago. Her shove, her desperate flight into the alleys, had been a gut punch, her defiance a fire I hadn’t anticipated. I’d been so close, her arm in my grip, her tear-streaked face inches from mine, but she’d outmaneuvered me, vanishing into Venice’s labyrinth. My men had scoured the city, their boots pounding every bridge and piazza, but she was gone, a ghost I couldn’t catch. I wouldn’t stop, though. She was mine, and I’d tear the world apart to bring her home.That night bled into days, a relentless hunt that consumed me. I barely slept, my eyes burning as I coordinated with Rico, my lead bounty hunter, and his team, their reports a litany of dead ends. We checked ev
The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back 28. Who Can I Trust?
Ella’s Point of ViewThe tunnel’s damp chill seeped into my bones as I huddled in the small canoe, the canal’s gentle ripples a deceptive lullaby against the tension coiling inside me. Hours had passed since Emerson—my father, the man I’d spent a decade despising—had pulled me from the bridge, saving me from Marcus’s grasp. The sounds of Marcus and his men had faded, their heavy footsteps and furious shouts no longer echoing over the Venetian night, but I couldn’t shake the fear that he was still out there, his hunters scouring every alley for me. I sat at the canoe’s far end, my knees drawn to my chest, my blonde hair—cropped as Clara Rossi—tucked under a scarf, my eyes avoiding Emerson’s. The silence between us was thick, broken only by the soft creak of his oars as he rowed, guiding us through the shadowed waterways.Venice’s beauty was a cruel irony now, its canals glinting under the faint moonlight, the old palazzos looming like silent witnesses to my escape. My hand rested on
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