Semua Bab RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE EX-HUSBAND CHASED ME BACK: Bab 111 - Bab 120

By the time we returned to the city, the world had moved on. Trends shifted, scandals erupted, new controversies consumed the headlines. But our work hadn’t been for headlines.#ReclaimArt still trended intermittently, a heartbeat pulsing through digital space. I got tagged in murals painted in Toronto, zines printed in Chicago, essays written in Manila. Students messaged me asking for advice. Professors invited me to guest lecture. I agreed to a few—only the ones that felt rooted in something real.The first Studio Phoenix residency launched the following spring. We converted an old firehouse into studio spaces and brought in a therapist familiar with creative trauma. Marisol helped structure the nonprofit. Jeff taught photography workshops. I led morning meditations and guided painting sessions under trees.Our first cohort of residents was a mix of ages and mediums. A spoken word poet escaping an abusive label contract. A queer sculptor fighting a custody battle. A textile artist w

That afternoon, a box was delivered to our downtown headquarters. No sender, no message—just a sleek black cube with a silver Choi Collective emblem stamped into the lid.Curious, I opened it in the middle of the main floor. Jeff hovered near me, tense.Inside was a thick manila folder, a glossy pamphlet, and a single ivory card with looping, expensive handwriting."To Demi Perez,In case you’re ready to evolve.– JC"I thumbed through the folder. Enclosed were statistics—digital engagement metrics, financial comparisons, influencer endorsements. The pamphlet detailed a proposed acquisition. Jenny Choi wanted to buy the Perez Group.I laughed out loud, short and sharp. Several interns turned to look.“She thinks I’d sell?” I muttered.Jeff took the pamphlet and scanned it quickly, his lips curling into a sneer. “She’s not just trying to buy you out. She’s trying to erase you.”The offer was cloaked in diplomacy, full of language about ‘integration’ and ‘synergy.’ But between the lines

The Vellana Hotel was sleek and glassy, the kind of place where the lobby smelled like vanilla and money. The staff recognized me, of course. I was Jeff Ortega’s “almost-fiancée” in the public eye.I didn’t wait for permission. I went straight up to the top floor.Room 2301.I knocked once.Then again.And then I heard movement.The door opened halfway.Jeff stood there, shirtless, with a towel around his waist. His hair was wet, like he’d just come out of the shower. There were red marks on his collarbone. I didn’t know what they were. I didn’t want to.“Demi?”His voice was thick with sleep. Or guilt.“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, my voice breaking.He blinked, confused. “I—I didn’t know you were coming.”“No. You didn’t think I’d catch you.”Jeff opened the door wider, revealing the perfectly untouched king-sized bed behind him. The room was clean. Too clean.“Where were you last night?”“I told you. Business meeting.”“With Jenny?”His expression shifted instantly.

I didn’t sleep that night.Not really.I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the glow of my phone screen casting long shadows across my room as I scrolled through every old photo, every text thread with Rafi—each one now laced with a question I never thought I’d ask.Was any of it real?At 4:52 AM, I sent him a message:Me: We need to talk. Today.He replied in less than five minutes.Rafi: Come by the shop before we open. 9 sharp.The bell above the door jingled when I stepped into his family’s repair shop, a quiet haven usually filled with the smell of oil and old wood. But today it felt suffocating. Like the walls had been listening all along.Rafi was behind the counter, wiping down a busted espresso machine. He looked up, and his smile faltered as soon as he saw my face.“Hey,” he said slowly.I walked past the counter and locked the door behind me.“We’re not doing this casually,” I said.He nodded, wiped his hands on a rag, and leaned against the counter like he was bracing for

The video went viral overnight.It wasn't supposed to. I hadn’t edited it for drama, hadn’t scripted a redemption arc. But there it was, reshared a thousand times, on student accounts, art feeds, feminist pages, and eventually even a few minor news sites.People called it “brave.” Some called it “staged.”And others… called it a declaration of war.By noon the next day, I was summoned to the Dean’s office.I walked in wearing all black and zero makeup, half-daring anyone to underestimate me. Jeff was already sitting inside when I arrived, his expression unreadable, lips pressed into a firm line. He looked good — tired, older than a week ago, but good. It made me want to look away.The Dean, an aging woman with hawk eyes and a bob sharp enough to slice fruit, gestured for me to sit.“I’ll make this brief,” she said. “There are two narratives going around. Yours, and the one spreading like wildfire thanks to the anonymous leak. Now, we have no official proof, but…”She glanced at Jeff.