Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Billionaire's Forgotten Ex-wife : Kabanata 191 - Kabanata 200

[Lincoln]"Lincoln, stop! Please don't go!"The words echo like a haunting melody, looping endlessly in the depths of my mind. A voice—soft, desperate—pleading with me. I try to latch onto it, but it's slippery, dissolving before I can grasp its meaning. My head feels submerged, like I’m trapped underwater. The weightlessness is suffocating, yet everything around me is unbearably heavy. Distantly, I’m aware of movement, of muffled voices cutting through the thick fog clouding my thoughts. Floating and drowning. Light and heavy. Here and not."It’s been two days already! I thought you said the injection only required twenty-four hours, you quack doctor! I told my father you were incompetent. Listen to me, if he doesn’t wake up soon—"I try to focus, to make sense of the words, but they twist and blur before I can piece them together. My thoughts feel sluggish, stuck in the mud of my own mind. The voice from before lingers, like a whisper against my ear. Don’t go."I did my job diligen

[Arella]I don't think we can afford to waste any more time. "Sister-in-law, give us permission. Benson and I will go in your stead." Jordan states worriedly.Pacing my office, overlooking the bright San Diego skyline, I press my fingers to my temple, exhaling sharply. Why now, of all times? Why does everything seem to be unraveling all at once?"You know what? Yes. Let's do that," I say decisively, straightening my posture. "I'll send the location and details to you. Please do a thorough search—anything, no matter how small, might help us. Don’t leave any stone unturned."I meet both their gazes, ensuring they understand the weight of my words. They nod in unison, standing up, their expressions determined."Zach will be with you also," I add.Benson shakes his head. "I'd feel better if he could stick by your side for now, Arella. We don’t know what troubles might arise in today’s meeting."I nod, conceding the point. I should be en route to Florida by now, chasing Grandfather’s lates

[Arella]Have you ever longed for something so deeply, only to be denied it over and over again? And then, when you finally get it, you feel... nothing?Because tell me why I’m sitting across from my father-in-law and grandmother-in-law in the dimly lit study of the Sawyer estate, their faces grim and pale, like they’re afraid to speak in my presence. The heavy scent of old books and polished wood lingers in the air, wrapping around us like a suffocating blanket. My father-in-law clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing with unease."How have you been, Arella?" he asks, his voice measured, like he's trying to sound casual.I raise an eyebrow. "How have I been?" I repeat, the bitterness curling around my words before I can stop it.Seven months. Seven months of silence. Not a word from either of them. Every single family gathering between our families—declined. No messages, no explanations, nothing. And now, my father-in-law suddenly shows up at work, requesting my presence, expect

[Arella] The private jet hummed softly beneath my feet as I approached, Zach and his men flanking me on either side like silent sentinels. My heart hammered a little harder than usual, but I ignored it, my focus locked on the mission ahead. I knew I should probably wait for Benson and Jordan to return from Florida—playing it safe would be the smart thing to do. But what if this lead went cold? What if this person changed their mind? The IP address traced back to a woman’s phone—a bartender. She ran a shady little dive bar, the kind of place where secrets slipped out between shots of cheap whiskey and whispered conversations in the dark. Maybe she’d seen Lincoln with Lisa or Thompson? Maybe she knew something crucial? Or maybe… something about that desperate message didn’t sit right. If she was just giving me information, why did it feel like a cry for help? I’d responded, asking for a time to meet. No response. Nothing. Just silence. I exhaled sharply, shoving those nagging dou

[Arella] We pass through the back, and the stench immediately assaults my senses—an overwhelming mix of stale alcohol, damp wood, and rotting garbage. Dirty bottles are strewn everywhere, some stacked haphazardly in corners, others being washed with a half-hearted effort. The entire place reeks of neglect. Dust clings to every surface, thick enough that I can practically taste it in the air. A few workers loiter around, loading crates onto a rusty truck that looks like it's one pothole away from falling apart. The sight of it all makes my skin crawl. My fingers twitch at my sides, an instinctive reaction to the unease curling in my stomach. This place feels wrong. Like a trap waiting to be sprung. A man with decayed teeth—yellowed and jagged, a testament to years of neglect—flashes me a grin as we draw closer. The smile is anything but friendly; it's lecherous, the kind that makes my skin prickle in revulsion. "Who's this fine little birdie, Isla?" His eyes drag over me from head