Semua Bab My Ex, the Widowed Billionaire: Bab 101 - Bab 110

I didn’t sleep that night.Not because of fear—though it curled at the edge of my thoughts like smoke—but because Callum held me, and I couldn’t bear to let go. We lay in silence, our fingers intertwined beneath the blanket, our bodies close beneath the old solar-thermal canopy we had cobbled together in the earliest days of Emberfield.Outside, the valley held its breath. Somewhere below, the tech team was scrambling to trace the signal. Raven had locked herself in the command outpost. Kira had fallen into a fitful, whispered sleep, murmuring to herself in languages she hadn’t spoken in years.But here, in our little red-doored home at the edge of the world, Callum’s heartbeat was steady. Grounding. Human.“I thought she was gone,” I whispered into the dark.He didn’t ask who I meant. He knew.“Sometimes the past doesn’t stay buried,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it gets to define you.”I turned my face into his chest. “What if it defines her?”Kira.Callum exhaled slowly, his han

Emberfield breathed differently now. Slower. Freer. Like a city exhaling after years of bracing for war.Kira slept through the night for the first time in weeks. No more thrashing, no more sudden jolts upright or whispered apologies to someone only she could see. When I passed her room in the mornings, I’d sometimes catch her sitting by the window, sketching. Always with charcoal. Always towers or roots or stars. But she was drawing for herself again, not because something inside her demanded it.Callum and I spent our time rebuilding. Not the walls—they were strong—but the spirit of the town. We reopened the listening tower. Recalibrated the solar nets. Raven organized a patrol rotation that actually allowed people to rest. People started smiling again. Just a little. Just enough.But peace didn’t mean forgetting.It was three weeks after the fire when the dreams came to me.They weren’t like Kira’s—no whispers, no luring fog or promises stitched in static. Mine were colder. Clearer

The trip to Site Thirteen took six days, most of them over ocean, skimming low in our scout flier to avoid the fragmented orbital grids that still blinked and sparked with old defense routines. Raven flew with precision born of muscle memory and caution, her fingers always brushing the nav-console like it might snap out of existence if she let go.Kira slept through most of it. Not from exhaustion exactly, but something quieter. Like her mind was focused somewhere else—communing with frequencies none of us could hear. She’d scribble sometimes in her journal, diagrams that looked less like drawings and more like equations written in a forgotten geometry.Callum stayed beside me, shoulders brushing in silence. We didn’t need to speak often. His presence was enough. Steady. Unshaken. But I saw the way he watched the horizon when he thought I wasn’t looking. He knew, as I did, that this wasn’t just another relay point. Site Thirteen was a hinge. Whatever happened there could swing the ent

The days blurred, not from speed but from stillness. No alarms. No transmissions crackling through the quiet. Just the slow pulse of normal life trying to remember itself. Callum and I built a rhythm out of simple things—repairs, walks along the cliffs, salvaging old tech from the shoreline. The house we’d found was crumbling, but we liked it that way. We patched it up, brick by brick, and let the rest stay wild.The world outside was learning. Frequencies that once pierced the sky with warnings now hummed low and curious. Drones that used to scan for anomalies drifted like forgotten kites, their protocols overwritten by new harmonics. We were no longer targets. We were ghosts of an old system, living in a new one.But peace is never passive. It’s something you choose. Every day. And I could feel something pulling again.It started with the dreams.They weren’t visions. Not like before. No glyphs or chanting. Just presence. A quiet awareness that someone—or something—was watching, wai

The signal hadn’t changed.But we had.It came softly, like a memory threading itself through the air—barely perceptible at first. Kira detected it in the harmonics lab, noting a faint anomaly in the background noise of the Archive’s western cliffs. She called it a “ghost harmonic.” Nothing dangerous. Nothing urgent.But Callum heard something else.Not a frequency.A name.Mine.I was in the greenhouse when he found me, hands buried in soil, whispering a story to the vines—an old one about snowfall and warmth. The blue blossoms had unfurled, basking in the gentleness of the words. That’s when his shadow fell across the stones.“You need to hear this,” he said, breathless.I straightened. “Another pulse?”He shook his head. “Something different. Not a warning. It’s… calling you.”My hands were still streaked with soil when I followed him.We didn’t speak on the walk. The wind turbines hummed gently as we passed, their tones shifting like sighs. Callum walked fast, but not in panic—mor