Semua Bab Billionaire’s Ex-wife Is Over Him: Bab 91 - Bab 100

Faye knew how to play cute and weak to get extra love and attention. Sure, she had her own struggles, and yes, she was really sick—but when those became her weapons, and when innocent people got hurt because of it... Amanda just couldn’t feel good about her anymore. And, Fiona is that kind of person. The moment Fiona’s name was mentioned, Faye’s face popped into Amanda’s head. Fiona’s epilepsy. Fiona’s hidden agenda. No different. Amanda lifts the glass again. She plans to savor this glass of vodka slowly, letting each sip unfold its hidden layers. The first sip of Grey Goose was like swallowing winter moonlight—cold, smooth, and almost weightless on the tongue. The vodka slipped down her throat without a fight, leaving no burn, only a quiet warmth pooling in her chest. She swirled the glass, watching the liquid cling to the crystal edges like liquid mercury. No harsh ethanol bite, no chemical aftertaste—just

A few minutes later, the door opens, and Grace walks in. She’s in a long beige coat, wind tugging at the hem as she slips inside. Her eyes scan the room fast—sharp, searching. “Huh, The Snug. Nice choice.” Then she stares at Amanda and heads straight over.“You really are hiding out,” Grace says as she slides onto the stool next to her. She leans one elbow on the bar and shrugs off her coat. Amanda lets out a breath through her nose, faint like a laugh. “I needed some air. And vodka.”“Henry’s been asking about you,” Grace says, reaching for the small bowl of cookies on the bar, tossing one into her mouth. “I told him I had no idea. Gave him the whole wide-eyed clueless act.” Amanda smiles a little. “Thanks. I really didn’t want to deal with him.”“You two talked like, what, twice?” Amanda tilts her glass again, watches the vodka swirl. “Yeah. It was never real. I flirted with him just to piss off Fiona. Stupid, huh?” Grace raises her brows. “It’s understandable. I just didn’t know Fi

Amanda had been so happy that day. She laughed and joked and asked to take pictures. Just a few, she said. Just for memories. Riley refused to be in them. He had a call. A meeting. Some battle with his father was boiling over again. So instead, he hired a photographer. Someone to come over and take proper pictures. For Amanda. She didn’t complain. Didn’t sulk. She smiled, nodded, and posed for the camera. Riley never asked where the photos went. But now, here it is. One of them. Saved in his phone. He doesn’t remember doing it. Doesn’t remember when. She must’ve sent it to him. But as he looks at it longer, something doesn’t sit right. He zooms in. Studies her eyes. There’s a tightness there. A glint of something behind the joy. Was it disappointment? He scrolls down. No other photos. Just that one. Riley stares at it for a long time. Then his mind starts connecting things. That

Looking back now, I must have fallen for Amanda long before throwing away that brooch. How could I have been so blind? All the signs were there—the way Riley’s pulse quickened when Amanda laughed, the hours he spent replaying our conversations in his head, the irrational jealousy that simmered beneath his skin whenever someone else caught her attention. Yet he’d dismissed it all, stubbornly oblivious to what now seemed painfully obvious.  God, what a fool I’ve been.  Which of us endures the crueler marriage—Mother or me?  Riley has lost someone who loved him—not for his status, his wealth, or any of the trappings that came with them, but for the man beneath it all. His mother, however, had fallen for a man with nothing to offer but a handsome face—a hollow charmer devoid of talent, dripping with false sincerity, who married her solely for her name and social standing.H

The idea sends a jolt through him. He straightens abruptly, the chair rolling back with a screech. Before logic can intervene, he fires off a message to his assistant:   “Monitor Amanda’s apartment. If it goes on the market, buy it immediately. No questions. No delays.”   Riley stares at the sent text, thumb hovering over the screen. The weight of the request settles over him—equal parts possessive and pathetic. But the alternative—letting some stranger walk through HER rooms, touch HER walls—is unthinkable. If she is gone, he’ll at least keep the ghost of her close. --- Grace kicks off her heels by the front door and drops her keys into the ceramic bowl on the shelf. The familiar clink echoes in the quiet hallway, but tonight it feels warmer than usual. The scent hits her first. Cedarwood. A soft, smoky note wrapped in something light&mda