All Chapters of My Ex, the Widowed Billionaire: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

Callum collapsed in the medical bay within minutes of arrival.His wounds—shrapnel laced through his left thigh, a fractured rib, and third-degree burns along his forearm—were enough to put down a lesser man for good. But the way he’d limped across that field, half-dead and still smirking, made it clear: Callum had crawled out of hell and dragged himself back just to keep his promise.And I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss him again or slap him for risking everything.“You could’ve died,” I whispered later that night, sitting at the edge of his cot in the med tent. The hum of machines and the low murmur of the wounded filled the air.He winced as he adjusted his arm, the skin raw and wrapped in gauze. “Would’ve died anyway if I hadn’t come back. Just… slower.”I reached out, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “Don’t joke about that.”“I’m not.” His eyes met mine—tired, bloodshot, but steady. “Athena, those days apart? Worse than the field. Worse than being outgunned and

The dawn was a quiet thing, soft as a whisper on the horizon. I didn’t want to say goodbye to the night, not yet—not when it felt like the last thing holding us together before the world outside the barracks pulled us apart again.Callum’s hand was warm in mine as we walked toward the transport trucks. The camp was still stirring—soldiers blinking awake, tents folding in the breeze, orders humming softly over radios. But somehow, all of that felt distant, like a fading echo of a life we’d been forced to live too long.I glanced at him, trying to read the exhaustion beneath his usual bravado. The way his jaw clenched when the pain flared in his ribs. The quiet determination in his eyes when he looked ahead.“Are you sure about this?” I asked, voice low.He squeezed my hand. “I’m sure about you.”It was the kind of certainty that made my heart tremble, the kind I thought I’d never feel again. War had carved too many doubts into my soul, too many fractures where trust used to live. But C

It had been three months since I’d said yes.Yes to staying.Yes to building a life.Yes to him.But love, I was starting to learn, doesn’t mean the past forgets you.We’d fallen into rhythm—quiet mornings with toast and eggs, the hum of country life. Callum’s callused hands brushing my cheek, his voice steady and sure. It should have been enough. But then the letter came.Folded twice. No return address. Just my name in handwriting I recognized instantly.Command was requesting me again—this time, not for combat, but for strategy consulting. A civilian role. High-paying. Short-term. Safe.Logical. Necessary, even.And yet, when I looked up from the letter, Callum was standing in the doorway. His expression unreadable. The air between us thickened.“You’re thinking about going,” he said.“I haven’t decided,” I replied, too quickly.“You didn’t have to.”I folded the letter slowly and placed it on the table between us, like it was a weapon. Maybe it was.“I thought this was what you wa

For a moment, I didn’t breathe.The message on my secure line was short, brutal, and intimate in a way only old enemies knew how to be. It wasn’t just a threat—it was a map of our ghosts. A list of those who’d already been taken, the red slashes across their faces like a mark of ritual execution. Someone had gone through the trouble of finding the old photograph—one we’d taken the night before a covert op in Balochistan—and repurposed it into a warning.Everyone in that picture was either dead or marked.Everyone… except Callum and me.I snapped the laptop shut like I could somehow crush the message by denying it oxygen. But its presence lingered. In my skin. In my throat. In the blood-thump between my ears.I looked back out the window.Callum was kneeling in the dirt, trowel in one hand, tomato sprout in the other. Unaware. Peaceful.Vulnerable.I took the long way to him, walking around the back fence, pretending to check the soil levels in the raised beds. My fingers grazed the co

Some wounds don’t bleed anymore—but they still ache when the weather changes.And love, if it survives fire, betrayal, and silence, stops being a fragile thing.It becomes a choice.The garden Callum built was crooked in the best way.Uneven patches of green spilled over stone paths and mismatched wooden trellises. Morning glories climbed wild. Tomatoes hung plump and sun-warm. Basil sprouted in chaotic defiance. Nothing here obeyed order. Nothing here was perfect.But every inch had his hands in it.And somehow, it grounded me more than any safehouse ever did.I was kneeling by the beans when I heard him behind me. The soft crunch of boots on gravel. Not stealthy—Callum never crept. He came as he was.“You’re staring at that plant like it owes you an apology,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.“It’s not thriving,” I murmured. “Leaves are curling. Could be soil fatigue.”He crouched beside me, resting his elbows on his knees. “Or maybe it’s just figuring itself out.”I looked at him