Semua Bab Her Billionaire Ex-Husband's Regret: Bab 51 - Bab 60

Chapter 52: When the Past Wants a VoiceThe week Sophia finalized the full draft of her book, a strange and unexpected message found its way to her. It arrived not through her personal inbox, but through the general admin email of the foundation—a route that usually filtered out newsletters and spam. But this one had been flagged for review, not because of its content, but because of the name attached to it. A name that felt like the distant echo of a wound long scabbed over.The subject line read:“Permission to Speak: A Letter from Ava.”Sophia stared at the screen, still as stone, as the words stared back at her. She didn’t open it. Not right away. Her heartbeat had slowed but deepened, like a drum rolling in the background of a quiet moment. She could feel it in her throat, in her wrists, in her ribs. Every part of her seemed to hold its breath.Clara burst into her office a few minutes later, phone in hand, eyes wide. “Okay, tell me this is spam,” she said.Sophia didn’t speak. J

Chapter 54: The Book That Broke the Silence The release of The Woman Who Refused to Disappear didn’t just arrive—it descended, heavy and fierce, like the rain that hammered down on Lagos that Tuesday. The sky rumbled with thunder, like distant applause sent from the heavens. Clouds brooded low above the city, mirroring the gravity of the moment. But inside the sleek, understated venue Sophia had chosen,a pristine gallery bathed in soft white light—there was only warmth. A sanctuary carved out of a storm.They weren’t just guests. They were believers. Survivors. Warriors cloaked in dignity. Journalists hungry for meaning. Allies standing shoulder to shoulder. And at the center of it all, reclaiming her story like a queen retaking her throne, stood Sophia.Her emerald dress shimmered with grace. Her hair, swept into a quiet, defiant bun. Her eyes—oh, those eyes,were luminous, steady. Calm not because she had no fear, but because she'd already stared it down and survived. She’d written

The Geneva air was sharp and pristine, laced with something that struck Sophia at her core—arrival. Not just the physical kind, but the soul-deep awareness that she had stepped into a moment she never envisioned for herself.She stood beneath the towering glass ceiling of the Palais des Nations, surrounded by banners waving in every language, skin tones from every corner of the globe, voices rising like a hymn of resilience. The Global Women’s Peace Council wasn’t just a summit. It was a convergence of legacies. A sanctuary of revolution. A sacred choir of survivors, builders, and world-changers.And somehow—miraculously—she was one of them.A delegate handed her a lanyard.SOPHIA GEORGEKEYNOTE SPEAKER – DAY 3THE POWER OF SURVIVAL STORYTELLINGHer fingers lingered on the bold letters, tracing the print like it might vanish. It didn’t feel like a name tag.It felt like a declaration.A scar turned into scripture.Her first panel was intentionally small—ten women, one circle, no camer

Three months later, the journey began.The first leg of The Fire We Share tour rolled out—not in luxury, but in purpose. Their white sprinter bus wasn’t glamorous, but it was home on wheels. Shelves lined with donated books. Warm golden lights overhead. And painted across both sides, three simple quotes from Sophia’s memoir:“You are not hard to love.”“Your silence was never a flaw. It was a pause.”“We don’t rise to impress. We rise to breathe.”Ralia sat up front beside Sophia, her journal clutched like a lifeline. Her eyes shone as brightly as the morning sun they’d chased out of Benin.“I still can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, almost afraid to wake the dream.Sophia smiled, her gaze steady on the road ahead. “Neither can I.”Their first destination?Kaduna.A city carved from quiet resilience—scarred by conflict, yet stubborn in its strength. Sophia had once spoken here years ago, but this time, she came not alone, and not for applause.She came for something quie

Abeokuta greeted them not with fanfare, but with solemn grace—jagged hills, red dust curling through the air like whispered warnings, and a silence that held more than absence. It was a silence that pressed against the soul, a silence that listened. And somehow, it mirrored the ache in Sophia's chest.This was the third stop on The Fire We Share tour, and while everything on the surface followed the usual rhythm—check-ins, team meetings, outreach sessions—Sophia felt the fracture long before she could name it. The team was different. Or maybe, they had been breaking slowly, and it was only now that the cracks revealed themselves.The bus, once filled with the sound of laughter and shared dreams, had gone still. Ralia, usually the one humming to herself, her eyes alight with questions and awe, now sat near the back with her headphones on, eyes glazed and miles away. No one talked much after sessions anymore. No debates over what lines from a participant’s poem hit the hardest. No refle