All Chapters of Mr Billionaire's Regret: Ex-wife Returns With His Triplets.: Chapter 161 - Chapter 170

"I'm out of here," I muttered under my breath, slipping off the barstool like it had suddenly turned into hot coal. The ice in my glass had melted, the whiskey watered down, and so was my will to stay in this damn club.The music was still blasting, loud, thumping, chaotic. Bodies still moved like they were possessed by the beat. But all I could think about was her.Helen.God. I didn’t even know if it was really her I saw. Could’ve been someone who just looked like her. But something about the posture, the hair, the way she shifted closer to that guy — yeah, that did it. It dug into me like a hook, pulling something raw to the surface. I couldn’t breathe in here anymore. I couldn't think.So I headed toward the exit, the heavy bass pounding in my skull like a second heartbeat. My steps weren’t exactly steady — the whiskey I’d had earlier was starting to turn on me, mixing with the ache in my chest. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the flashes of smiles, the perfume trails, the

The moment his face flickered through the crowd, something inside me snapped—like a wine glass tipped off a table. Silent at first. Then shattering.It couldn’t be.But it was him. Ashton.He was standing there, just past the velvet ropes, past the glow and haze of the VVIP lounge. Half-shadowed by the dim lighting, half-exposed by the fury in his eyes. I wasn’t even sure when he got here. But he was. And I knew that look.I knew it better than anyone ever could.That was the look he wore when he lost his Dad. When we fought in the rain. When I told him I needed space and didn’t say how long. It was a look that meant something inside him had broken open.And he was watching me.Me.Laughing.And kissing Jace.God. That kiss.We hadn’t planned it. Jace leaned in at the exact moment I was turning toward him. It was more of a reflex than romance. And yes, maybe we’d been talking a little too close all night. But I wasn’t thinking about kisses or Ashton or anything at that moment.And t

The car ride home was a blur of red lights, loud music, and anger pressed tight behind my ribs.I shouldn't have been driving, I knew it. But logic had left me hours ago, somewhere between the velvet ropes and the look on Helen’s face when she saw me. That kiss. That moment. It was seared into my skull like a scar that had just been made. I couldn’t see straight, but my hands gripped the wheel hard enough to crack bones. I was breathing hard, jaw clenched, the engine roaring beneath me as I swerved through the city like I was trying to outrun what I saw.It didn’t work.Nothing could outrun that image.The roads blurred. I missed my exit twice. I cursed at the GPS like it was the enemy. Every red light felt like an attack. Every car in front of me was in my way. At some point, I screamed in the car—loud, guttural, raw—just to feel something other than this pressure in my chest.When I finally pulled into my driveway, I slammed the brakes so hard, the tires screeched. The gate had

The first thing I felt when I walked onto the soundstage was how completely fake everything felt. The sun outside had been too bright. The fake sun here, blasted through high-powered lights, felt even more suffocating. I adjusted my coat, stepped past a camera crane, and tried to steady my steps. Makeup was already on. The costume, already clinging to my skin. Lines fully memorized. Or so I thought."Places, everyone!"A crew member waved me over. I walked across the polished kitchen set, heels clicking against the laminate floor that looked like wood but wasn’t. Everything here was pretend. Pretend house. Pretend heartbreak. Pretend Helen.The scene was simple: dinner confrontation. My character, Elise, finds out her partner has been lying for months. She confronts him across the kitchen table, a slow burn that turns explosive.I knew the scene. I’d read it a dozen times. Rehearsed it in my bathroom mirror until I got the pacing right. Elise was supposed to cry by the third beat,

The conference room buzzed with the familiar rhythm of quarterly strategy talk—charts, revenue projections, phrases like “cross-market leverage” and “quarterly burn rate” tossed around like poker chips. Ashton sat at the head of the table, suit sharp, posture rigid, eyes glazed. He heard every word, but none of it registered in his head.Ed was halfway through a slide deck, pacing with the energy of a man trying to sell revolution in bullet points. “If we don’t pivot aggressively into Southeast Asia now, someone else will eat our lunch. The metrics are all here.” He stabbed a finger at the projection screen. “We’re hesitating. We’re bleeding edge, but we’re playing it safe. That doesn’t work in this market.”Someone down the table nodded. Someone else scribbled a note. Ashton said nothing.He wasn’t thinking about Jakarta. Or the numbers. Or market share.He was thinking about her.Not Helen exactly. Not even the message he’d mistakenly sent her at 2:13 AM and instantly regretted—no