All Chapters of Billionaire’s Virgin Ex-Wife: Chapter 431 - Chapter 440

Michelle’s hand remained looped tightly around Ezra’s arm, refusing to let go. Her gaze followed Ava’s retreating figure until the woman disappeared beyond the glass doors of the lobby.Only then did she turn back, tugging gently at him with a honeyed smile. “Let’s go upstairs first. After that, you can show me the restaurant where you’ve been working.”Ezra’s jaw tightened. Watching the spot where Ava had vanished, he finally freed his arm from Michelle’s grasp. “How did you know I was working here?”Michelle’s chin lifted a little higher, pride softening her features. “Secret,” she said lightly, tapping a manicured finger to her lips.Ezra’s eyes darkened. He’d taken precautions, changed his name, and even avoided his usual circles — there was no reason she should have found him so easily.“Michelle,” he said evenly, “how exactly did you find me?”Her smile deepened, teasing. “Want to know?” She tilted her head toward the bellhop waiting with her luggage. “Take me to my room first,

The next morning dawned soft and silver, the faint drizzle outside blurring the city skyline.Since they were due to travel abroad soon, Ava had already asked for leave from Cello’s teacher — which meant, for once, the little one could sleep in without an alarm.She, however, had not slept well.All night her mind had twisted between thoughts of Alexander and the test — what it would reveal, or rather, what she would make it reveal. Her dreams were hazy, fragmented — flashes of blue eyes, laughter in the dark, the smell of rosemary that refused to fade.When she finally woke, the clock on her bedside table read nine. Her head felt heavy, her body wrapped in a dull ache of sleeplessness.The flat was quiet.Too quiet.Her first thought was that Cello was still asleep.Throwing off the covers, Ava padded barefoot through the soft carpet and crossed the living room, her robe swaying loosely at her knees. She pushed open her son’s bedroom door with a teasing smile already on her lips.“Lit

Ava’s patience finally snapped.She kicked out, fast and hard — but Alexander dodged backward. His hip caught the edge of the table, sending the half-filled wine glass shuddering violently. Burgundy liquid sloshed over the rim, and the bottle rolled, teetering toward the edge.“Damn it!” she hissed, lunging to save it.Before she could steady herself, his hands closed over her shoulders, spinning her around. With a single, unhurried motion, he lifted her onto the edge of the dining table as though she weighed nothing.“Alexander!” she snapped, raising the bottle like a weapon. “This is your last warning. If you dare touch me again, I’ll—”Her threat broke off as he reached up, pried her fingers from the glass, and pressed his lips to her cheek — a brief, maddening brush of heat.“Stop it!” She turned her head sharply, but his hand came up, firm against her chin, holding her still.Then his mouth found hers.Her breath caught in her throat, fury and something else tangling inside her ch

Sunlight streamed through the oval window, spilling across the cabin in a wash of warm gold. It fell neatly over Alexander and Marcello—one tall and composed, the other small and bright-eyed—casting their profiles in the same hue, as though nature itself were quietly insisting on their resemblance.For a fleeting moment, the scene looked almost domestic.Too domestic.Ava’s fingers tightened beneath the blanket. She turned her face away and pulled the fabric higher, shielding her eyes.She had half-expected Alexander to retreat after last night—cool, distant, guarded with Marcello. Yet here he was, patient and attentive, letting the little boy chatter endlessly, indulging every question with a calm she rarely saw in him.So much for distance.Let him enjoy it, she told herself firmly. It’s only a short flight. An hour or so won’t change anything.She closed her eyes again, surrendering to the gentle hum of the engines and the faint murmur of voices, intending to rest just a little lon

The entire fourth floor had been knocked through and remodelled into Alexander’s private workroom and study.On the western wall stood an ebony bookshelf, its shelves lined with books arranged with almost obsessive precision—finance, architecture, design, history. Everything stood in quiet order. The eastern side of the room was his workspace: film reels stacked neatly, architectural models displayed under soft lighting, fabric swatches draped with deliberate care. Nothing here was accidental. Nothing was out of place.Alexander crossed the room, selected a vinyl record from the shelf, and placed it onto the turntable.With a soft click, the needle dropped.Music spilled into the air—slow, languid, a mulberry jazz tune sung by a woman with a husky, unhurried voice. The melody curled lazily around the room, unbothered by time.Alexander leaned back against the workbench, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes lowered as he waited.Minutes passed.Then—Footsteps.His blue eyes narr