Semua Bab Chasing My Innocent Ex-wife Back: Bab 101 - Bab 110

FLORENCE’S POVThe Blackwood private jet was exactly what you’d expect from Raiden: understated elegance, all clean white leather seats and warm wooden trim. No obnoxious gold, no velvet—just quiet charm and impeccable taste. Even the glassware looked like it had been chosen by someone who appreciated minimalism over flash.Rosa was already curled up in one of the corner seats with her legs tucked under her, champagne in one hand and a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries on her lap. She looked like she belonged there—like her life had always included private jets and French confections at 40,000 feet.Raiden was fast asleep, head tilted against the plush headrest, hair falling slightly into his face. His tie was loosened, his shoes were off, and his arms were crossed like he was guarding a secret. I couldn’t help but smile.I took the seat across from Rosa and buckled in.“So,” I started, propping my chin on my palm. “How is it that you’re flying back with us? Tired of having your

FLORENCE’S POV“W—What are you doing here?” I sputtered.My voice cracked, dry and defensive. My eyes darted around the room on instinct.The machines were all fine. Still humming. Tubes intact. Air supply secure. No strange men in black suits lurking in corners. No security footage being erased. No signs of sabotage.Still, the panic clung to me like static.Was he here to hurt my father?Mason looked up, startled by the sharpness in my tone.Before he could speak, a warm voice floated into the room.“Hello again, Mr. Mason!” said the nurse, breezing in with a clipboard and a comforting presence. “Just doing our midday rounds.”She smiled at me as well, familiar but not overly chatty, then quickly made her notes and slipped out of the room.“Mr. Mason,” I repeated slowly, turning back to him. “Not Mr. Whitehill?”He scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah. I’ve been coming by. Just to check on him. Hope that’s okay.”It was the most unsure I’d ever seen him. Not even in court, not

FLORENCE’S POVRosa had been given complete creative control by Mason. Not just over the launch, but the gallery itself—the look, the curation, the energy. Mason’s only real instruction was: “Make it yours.”And she had. God, she had.The gallery space was housed in a refurbished textile warehouse, all exposed brick and black steel beams softened by vines that snaked up old columns. Every piece of furniture had been secondhand or repurposed—vintage wooden ladders became sculpture stands, broken window frames were used to showcase pressed wildflowers, and the air carried the faint, sweet tang of beeswax candles.The art? Every piece was as alive as the message behind it. A suspended mobile made of oyster shells collected from polluted beaches. A woven tapestry dyed entirely with vegetable skins and natural pigment. A time-lapse video loop showing an artist painting a canvas, only to let rain wash it clean again.Rosa moved through the space like it was an extension of her body, baref

FLORENCE’S POVI decided not to dwell on the girl from the pharmacy or her runaway assumption. It was just another misunderstanding. One I’d laugh about another day, maybe. But not tonight.Right now, I had to be there for Annalise.The streets were quiet—too quiet. Paris had been noise and cobblestone and chaos, but this? This was the kind of silence that made you feel like you were walking through a painting. Even the wind had a sharpness to it, slicing through the seams of my jacket. I clutched it tighter around myself and picked up the pace, boots clicking against the pavement as I rounded the final corner to my building.By the time I stepped into the apartment, it was nearly 2 a.m.The lights were low. Rosa was sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone, and Annalise was curled up in the armchair, knees to her chest, hands wrapped around a half-full glass of water. She looked up the second I stepped inside.“Hey,” I said gently, slipping off my coat. “Ready?

MASON’S POVI’d been visiting Florence’s father nearly every day since I found out he was hospitalized.I never told anyone—not Clarke, not my mother, not even Candace. It wasn’t about the performance or the optics. It was just... Aliston Hart.Aliston had been the first real father figure I ever had. Not the biological kind who sat at the top of a marble staircase, barking orders and calling it parenting. No, Aliston was the one who handed me a wrench when I was twelve and showed me how to tighten the bolts on a bike chain. He taught me how to change a tire when I was fourteen. He taught me things a father should teach his son. So I came now. I sat beside him. I talked. Sometimes, I read to him. Other times, I just sat there and watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital blankets. It wasn’t much. But it was the only apology I knew how to give for the way I treated his daughter. I took care to never go when Florence would. Her visits were like clockwork—usua