บททั้งหมดของ A Ruthless Revenge: the Billionaire's Ex Wife Is Back: บทที่ 231 - บทที่ 240

Damien’s POVThe barrel of the gun was a black line against the night.I squinted past the glare of the gun until the face behind it came into focus — Michael Lancaster.Michael’s face hovered over me, hard and knuckled, the light from the veranda slicing across his jaw.I raised my hands slowly. “Michael.” My voice came out rougher than I meant, the taste of copper sharp in my mouth where his punch had landed. My cheek throbbed; blood traced a warm path down my lip.He didn’t lower his gun at once. He just looked at me—the same look he gave men who crossed the only people he’d ever sworn to protect. Finally, he eased the gun down by inches, letting it hang at his side.“Damien Vaughn,” he said sharply, “what the hell are you doing here, sneaking around at night? I thought my sister had already told you to stay the fuck away from her.”I gave a pained laugh, more exhale than sound. “I—” Michael took a step closer. The gun rose again slightly, not aimed, but a reminder. “Get up,” he o

Celeste’s POVI practically flew down the stairs, heart still racing from everything that had just happened. As I reached the foyer, I was already dialing Michael’s number. It rang and rang, but he didn’t answer. I frowned, trying again. Still nothing.“Where did you go off to so early?” I muttered under my breath.I tried Harper next. Straight to voicemail. Great.I sighed, pacing near the door. I was going to need their help once Auntie Eleanor arrived. But if they were out, at least Alain would be at the hospital and he’d probably want to accompany me here and assist. Grabbing my bag, I stepped outside, squinting against the soft Provence sunlight. I was just about to head toward the car when movement caught my eye near the gate.Two figures walking in—hand in hand.Michael and Harper.I stopped short, blinking once, then twice. They were laughing at something, looking completely ridiculous and happy, like teenagers sneaking home after curfew.A grin broke across my face. “Oh, t

Celeste’s POVAuntie Eleanor’s new room was bathed in late-afternoon light, the curtains drawn halfway so the sunlight spilled in gently across the pale linens. Beyond the French windows, the garden stretched wide and green, the lavender swaying softly in the breeze.We’d spent the past hour settling her in — Harper arranging flowers on the bedside table, Michael carrying in her favorite chair, and me fluffing the pillows one last time until Auntie finally laughed and told me to stop fussing.Now it was quiet again, just the two of us. She sat propped against the headboard, looking out at the garden with a small, peaceful smile. I perched on the edge of the bed, a cup of tea warming my hands.“I’m meeting Margaux soon,” I said, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. “She wants to talk about a possible collaboration.”Auntie turned to me, her eyes lighting up. “Ah, Margaux Leclair. You’ve mentioned her before.”“She seems wonderful,” I said. “I can’t believe she wants to work wit

Celeste’s POVLe Jardin Bleu smelled like roasted coffee and peonies.The whole café was drenched in sunlight and charm — pale blue walls, mismatched chairs, vases filled with wildflowers on every table. Colette’s place had always been a haven for artists, writers, and dreamers. Today, it was my turn to borrow that magic.Margaux sat across from me, her hair swept up in a silk scarf, a sketchbook open between us. “Alright,” she said, tapping her pen against the page, “hear me out. Contrasts. That’s the soul of this new collection. Opposites that somehow belong together.”I smiled. “Like chaos and structure.”“Exactly,” she said, eyes bright. “Remember what we talked about at the market last time? Think—lace with leather, raw linen with metallic thread, florals with geometric cuts. Pieces that shouldn’t work, but do.”The idea sparked something in me. My fingers itched. I pulled my own sketchpad closer, pencil moving almost before I realized it.Soft lines, sharp edges. A flow of silk

Celeste’s POVIt had been a few days since Auntie Eleanor came home, and life inside the estate was beginning to find a rhythm again.Morning light spilled through the tall windows of the room I’d finally claimed as my studio. The old spare room smelled of fabric dye, chalk, and coffee; bolts of linen leaned against the wall like soldiers in muted tones, while threads, beads, and bits of lace covered nearly every surface.Margaux sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting accessories into little boxes while I pinned the edge of a wrap skirt to the mannequin. A sketch of a matching bag fluttered beside us, caught in the draft from the window.“It’s practical,” Margaux said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “That’s what small-town exhibits need—pieces people can actually wear and love. Blouses, skirts, scarves, bags… everyday art.”I smiled. “Fashion for real lives.”“Exactly,” she said, holding up a strip of raw silk and measuring it against the linen. “And if we do it right, the colle