All Chapters of My Ex-wife is a Hidden Heiress!: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The Mole’s MarkMarcus POV~Seryne’s streets were a tangle of shadows, the city’s heartbeat a low thrum as I slid open the door to Dr. Lena Voss’s lab, the lock giving way to my picks with a muffled snap. My heart pounded, fear edged—Rosanna’s concern about a Galden mole was no joke, not with Valenticia’s potion in the balance. The lab was dark, the fluorescence down, but there were counters, and my penlight played across them, catching the glimmer of glass vials, and the sheen of steel equipment. My feet were silent against the tile, each step calculated, fear spiking—what if they were here? I had worked for Rosanna a quarter century, and her trust was scraped together through hard luck, but the work I was being asked to do—protecting Valenticia Clawford—felt personal, a reward for a debt to Eleanor’s kindness all those years ago, her welcoming smile when I was little more than a hungry kid that she kept from going hungry. I spotted Lena’s bench, the vials marked Antidote Prototype,

Lazareth’s VeilGregor's POV~I sat back in my leather chair, a Scotch in my hand, watching the amber of my drink reflect the light of the desk lamp as I sneered through Lazareth’s serum trials. My voice was steel, cruel wisdom cut over years of practiced control, “Valenticia’s a pawn, nothing less.” Behold the Lazareth project – my masterpiece, the weaponization of memory-hole suppression, serum derived from the remains of Subject V, my niece, Valenticia Clawford. Her groping for the antidote, her mother’s sorry heirloom, was the gnat’s hum in my scheming. Fear? Absent. She would never win in a fight against me. I sipped the scotch, the burn in the scotch, and scrolled through documents with coded file names, Lazareth’s data a symphony of power: dosages fine-tuned, trials enlarged, funds wired into shadow accounts. My will did not waver, it was iron, hard -- the world will bend, and Valenticia will break. *Natasha Anderson's report had flashed across my screen, her voice came clippe

Broken Bondsvalenticia's POV~I stood, frozen, in the library of the Clawford family estate, Marcus’s picture wobbling in my grip. My Stefan was at a Seryne café with Natasha Anderson, his hand on top of hers on the table, their heads inclined in close company. My heart broke into pieces as if glass shattered on the pavement into a thousand sharp pieces—why did you lie to me? Where fear and fury met, my breaths coming raggedly, the antidote vial locked away in my box nothing but a whisper against this betrayal. His distant texts ever since our night in the rose garden, his Busy, talk soon, now felt toxic. My hands clenched around the photo, biting into its edges, the fear piking—is he with Galden? The library’s oak shelves towered above, Eleanor’s journals accusing the skin off my bones and I fell toward a chair, my sweater soaked with sweat, my mother’s lullaby — - Hush my star — a thin whisper I couldn’t latch on to. Determination flickered, a little flame among the ruins I will f

Marrow’s GambitValenticia's POV~Seryne’s pier extended into dusk like a skeletal finger, its boards creaking beneath the soles of my boots, the sea’s fitful churn a reflection of the fear pounding in my blood. The letter from “M”—Lazareth’s endgame—find me—burned in my pocket, a gassy riddle I could not shoo away. The antidote in the vial, secure in the Clawford estate’s lockbox, was a sketchy light at the end of the tunnel, its nebulous label—neural overload—a wraith dogging my every step. My long leather coat flapping in the briny wind, salt stinging my eyes, I peered along the craggy pier, fear sharp—is this Marrow, or a Galden trap? Natasha’s Lazareth ties, Patel’s email, Gregor’s foot-in-mouth—I knew they were all pieces of a noose tightening around me, and Stefan’s betrayal, the sight of his hand on Natasha’s in the damning photo, a wound still bleeding. My heart hurt raw with the scene between us, his pleading—I love you—a blade I’d abandoned. Determination flashed, a candle

Auction’s EdgeValenticia's POVSeryne’s auction hall was a gilded cage, the chandeliers spraying prisms onto velvet-draped tables, the murmur of money and power a low drone beneath the clink of crystal-made flutes. I cowered in the shadows of a marble column, my black shift dress suctioned to my body, a smooth laptop bag slung across my shoulder, fear thumping like a drum through my veins. The memory chip’s revelation—Lazareth serum auction, Dr. Lena Voss as Gregor Galden’s ally—singed my thoughts, the antidote vial kept back at Clawford estate a tenuous defense against viable warning: neural overload. My dark wig was irritating, my spy name, Clara Vane, art dealer, a flimsy cover at best, my mettle, iron. I looked into the crowd, my fear razor-sharp—is Gregor here? Natasha’s Lazareth connections, Patel’s evidence, Rosanna’s alert about Gregor’s dirty tricks—they stitched a net around me that was slowly closing in on itself, and Stefan’s affair, his hand on Natasha’s in that damning