บททั้งหมดของ A Ruthless Revenge: the Billionaire's Ex Wife Is Back: บทที่ 241 - บทที่ 250

Harper’s POVIt was supposed to be just lunch.Nothing fancy, nothing loaded — just pizza and sunshine in a sleepy Provençal town.But with Michael Lancaster sitting across from me, laughing over a lopsided slice of margherita, nothing ever stayed simple.“This place is a hidden gem,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Good find, Harper Lin.”I smirked. “Of course it is. I have impeccable taste. You’re lucky I didn’t drag you to some five-star place with linen napkins and existential menu descriptions.”He grinned, eyes glinting with amusement. “Well, I wouldn’t mind that kind of place if it’s what you want—” he paused just long enough for it to sting— “as long as we’re together.”For a second, my breath hitched. There it was again. The way he managed to stir my heart somehow. I forced a laugh, waving a hand like it didn’t mean anything. “Please. You’d fall asleep before the appetizers arrived.”He chuckled, low and easy, and I hated how it made my stomach flutter. I took a sip of

Celeste’s POVHarper sat on my bed, tugging half-heartedly at the strap of her sandal. We were both busy preparing to go to the pottery event at Le Jardin Bleu. “I don’t know, Celeste. Maybe I’ll just skip it,” she said, glancing at the mirror. “You don’t really need me there, do you?”I turned from my dresser, brow arched. “Skip Alain’s pottery event? He’s been planning this for weeks. We promised we’d all go, right?”“I know,” she groaned, running a hand through her hair. “I just… feel weird being at Colette’s café.”I smiled, recognizing that tone. “You mean because of her?”Harper rolled her eyes. “Don’t say it like that.”“Like what?” I teased. “You’re the one acting like Colette’s a villain in some movie.”She let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping. “She just makes me feel awkward, okay? She’s Michael’s best friend, she’s gorgeous and perfect, and she clearly worships him. I mean, did you see the way she looks at him?”I chuckled and crossed the room to grab my purse. “Maybe sh

Damien’s POVFrom the alley beside Le Jardin Bleu, I had a clear view of the café’s side door.It was one of those narrow Provençal lanes — cobblestones, ivy creeping over the walls, the air heavy with the smell of baked bread and roses. Picturesque. Peaceful.I’d been there long enough to watch Alain Durand play host — all smiles, easy laughter — until his phone rang. I knew that look when he answered; the flicker of panic, the quick glance toward the exit.Then he slipped outside.Moments later, another figure approached from the corner of the street. A young woman in a dark jacket, her stride quick and sharp. Even from where I stood, I could instantly tell who it was. His sister Soline. I edged closer, staying in the shadows behind a parked delivery van. Their voices carried more clearly than they realized.“Why the hell did you show up here?” Alain hissed.“I’m your sister,” Soline shot back, arms folded. “I wanted to support you. What’s wrong with that?”“I told you,” he snappe

Damien’s POVI sat in the rented Peugeot, the engine off, headlights dimmed, the estate glowing faintly under the porch lamps ahead.On my phone screen, Amaya’s perfectly composed face smiled back at me — poised, luminous, and utterly fake.“Yes,” she was saying sweetly to the interviewer, “Damien and I just spoke recently. He’s handling business in Europe for now, but once he’s back, we’ll start planning the wedding. It’s been such a wonderful, private engagement — we just wanted to enjoy it before sharing the news.”I swore under my breath and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. “What the fuck,” I muttered, running a hand down my face.Amaya needed the spotlight the way most people needed oxygen. And lately, her world had started to shrink — her parents’ contracts with my father’s company had been dissolved, and the Donelles’ influence was starting to wane. So what better way to secure her status than to attach herself to the Vaughn heir?I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temple.

Genevieve’s POVI sat at our reserved corner table at the Hôtel du Louvre cafe, stirring my cappuccino slowly, listening to Isadora Vaughn recounting the Aurora Foundation’s latest “successes” to our two partners Veronica Ashcroft and Nicole Carnegie. The conversation flowed easily, but I barely heard it. What held my attention — for a fleeting moment — was the reflection in the glass wall beside me.It had taken weeks to perfect this version of myself: the soft waves of honey-blonde hair, the subtle contour that sharpened my cheekbones just so, the muted rose lipstick that spoke of restraint, not seduction. Even my eyes — now a cool shade of gray, courtesy of contact lenses — added a hint of mystery that my old self could never carry.Rose de Montclair.Elegant. Educated. Untouchable.Paris demanded reinvention, and I’d obliged. Every detail was deliberate — from the understated jewelry to the French-manicured hands that never trembled.No one looking at me now would ever see Genevi