All Chapters of A Ruthless Revenge: the Billionaire's Ex Wife Is Back: Chapter 211 - Chapter 220

Damien’s POVThe night had been long. I’d parked the rented Peugeot a block away, half-dozing behind the wheel, jerking awake at every shadow that moved across the street. But morning came, the café opened, delivery trucks rumbled past—and Nico and Genevieve never returned.By the time my coffee went cold, I’d had enough.I climbed out of the car, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders, and timed it just right. The young receptionist I’d spoken with yesterday was coming up the steps, headphones dangling around her neck.“Bonjour,” I said warmly, holding out a second cup of coffee I’d just bought. Her face lit up instantly. “Oh! For me?”“Of course.” I offered the faintest smile, the one I knew could tilt the world in my favor. “Consider it thanks for being so helpful yesterday.”Her cheeks flushed as she accepted the cup. “That’s… really kind.”I walked with her toward the doors, my tone casual but my focus sharp. “Any chance our mysterious tenants came back last night? Or this m

Celeste’s POVI hadn’t expected it to take my breath away. The square shimmered with light and color, transformed into something straight out of a dream—countryside charm polished into chic elegance. Booths of pottery, handwoven textiles, and jewelry lined the edges, but all eyes were on the stage set up in the middle—simple wooden planks draped in linen and trimmed with flowers.And then the models came out. Flowing skirts in earthy tones, jackets embroidered with vines and blossoms, gowns stitched with shimmering threads that caught the lamplight. Each piece was fresh, inventive—alive.My breath caught. For the first time in months, I felt it again. That spark. The one I thought I’d buried back in New York, along with the girl who once thrived under runway lights and creative pressure. I’d missed this. The pulse of innovation, the thrill of seeing ideas turned into something tangible, powerful. My world. My language.“Wow,” Harper murmured at my side, leaning forward a little. “The

Damien’s POVThe hiss grew louder, a steady snake’s breath filling the concrete box. The gas was sweet and acrid all at once, clawing at my throat, burning my lungs with every drag of air.I yanked my jacket up over my nose and mouth, pressing hard, but it barely dulled the sting. My eyes swept the room, fast—door locked, no vents low enough to kick through, no second entrance.Think. Move. Survive.My gaze caught on a rectangle of gray light high on the far wall—a window, narrow, dust-caked, no wider than my shoulders. Still, it was something.Coughing, I staggered across the floor and dragged the chair beneath it, the scrape of wood against concrete ringing in my ears. My fingers trembled as I climbed up, balance unsteady. The gas was working fast, slowing me down, fogging the edges of my vision.“Come on, come on,” I muttered, my voice raw.I braced my pistol against the glass and smashed it once, twice—on the third strike, the pane shattered with a sharp crack. Shards rained down

Celeste’s POV“Alain…” I began, then paused. I didn’t know how to tell him what I wanted to say. He was waiting for me expectantly, his eyes filled with hope. “I mean this in the kindest way,” I continued softly, forcing myself to meet Alain’s eyes. “You’re a really good guy. But I’m not ready to… date again. Not yet. I just want to be friends. If that’s okay.”The words felt heavy, but I needed to say them. Needed to make it clear.For a moment, his expression flickered—hurt, disappointment—but then it smoothed into something gentler. He nodded once. “Friends,” he said quietly. “Sure, I understand.”Relief tugged at my chest, though it was tangled with guilt. I offered him a small smile. “Thank you.”“Of course.” His tone was careful, but I could feel him putting distance between us already.“Come on. Let’s find Michael and Harper before they eat everything without us.”We’d barely taken a few steps toward the square when a voice cut across the music and laughter.“Celeste Monroe?

Celeste’s POVThe air was crisp when I stepped out of the hospital. Beside me, Alain was shrugging into his jacket, clearly just off shift.“Done for the day?” I asked.He gave a tired smile. “Finally. And you?”“I was going to pick up some bread and fruit before heading home,” I said. “Eleanor’s been craving something fresh. But I’m really glad she’s beginning to eat more.” “That’s wonderful,” he replied, already falling into step beside me. “But let me come with you. You shouldn’t carry everything yourself.”At the market, the square buzzed with life—vendors calling out, children weaving between stalls, the warm tang of baked goods in the air. Alain took the basket from my hands without asking, filling it with glossy apples, apricots, and a loaf of rustic bread.We talked easily as we walked, our shoulders brushing now and then. I mentioned how Auntie Eleanor had stayed awake longer today, her words sharper, her eyes more alert.Alain nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I no