Lahat ng Kabanata ng CEO’s regret: Winning my wife back : Kabanata 41 - Kabanata 46

,ELEANOR.My breath goes still. Not just shallow or shaky, still. Like my lungs have frozen stiff in my chest, terrified to betray how I’m feeling.It’s Arthur’s effect. And I hate it. God, I hate how he’s still making my insides turn to jelly.His head rests lazily on my shoulder as we waltz, the weight of it so familiar it knocks memories loose in my skull. I know he must be tired, maybe even a little drunk from all that expensive wine, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing to me.Or maybe he does.This isn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen,not after everything. Not after we’ve been unstitched and signed the papers and gone our separate ways. Not after he made it clear he doesn’t want me like that.But my traitorous heart doesn’t listen. It never does.“You’re heavy,” I say. My voice sounds too even, too calm for the riot in my chest.He lifts his head then, those sharp golden-brown eyes flicking to mine, and the scent of him lingers,woodsy cologne, faint hints of smoke and leath

—ELEANOR.-I feel bad. So bad. My chest is tight, my face is hot, and my breath comes out in short angry bursts as I scramble to sit up. I ignore Arthur’s stifled laugh and focus on getting my feet steady on the floor of the car. My hands clutch at the ruined silk of my dress, shaking slightly as I realize the damage.This isn’t just a tear. It’s a massacre. The delicate fabric is shredded up to my thighs, threads hanging loose like a cruel reminder of my humiliation.I’ve ruined a million-dollar dress.My fingers tremble as I gather what’s left of it around me. I don’t even have the energy to glare at Arthur anymore.Then Alex climbs into the car. His sudden presence startles me, and before I can say anything, his hands are on my dress— ripping.“What the hell are you doing?!” I scream, clutching the tattered fabric tighter around my body.“I’m helping,” he says flatly, as if he isn’t currently committing a crime against couture.“Are you crazy?” My voice rises an octave. I gape at

—ARTHUR.-I’ve never seen Eleanor this drunk. Not once in all the years we’ve spent together as husband and wife. Not at weddings. Not at rowdy office parties where everyone else is swaying and spilling their drinks. Not even during those rare nights when we were alone and she might have let herself loosen up a little.She’s always so composed, so deliberate about her public image, the type of woman who holds a champagne flute for hours without ever actually emptying it. People probably think she’s allergic to alcohol, the way she avoids even the smallest sip. I’ve never questioned it—it was simply who she was.And now? Now she’s leaning heavily against me, her skin warm and flushed, her eyes glazed and struggling to focus. Her hair is damp from splashes of water she probably didn’t notice. The faint smell of wine clings to her breath. Something’s broken her tonight. Something strong enough to pull her past her own rules. My mind immediately goes to Brianna, to that simmering situati