All Chapters of A Ruthless Revenge: the Billionaire's Ex Wife Is Back: Chapter 391 - Chapter 400

Alain’s POVI almost made it.The noise of backstage celebration faded with every step I took, replaced by the hollow quiet at the edge of the corridor where shadows stretched longer and the lights grew sparse. My pulse was finally slowing, my mind already racing ahead—get out, disappear, think later—“Alain?”The voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t confident either.It trembled—just slightly—like the speaker hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.I turned and came face to face with Celeste. She stood a few steps away, half in shadow, half in light. She didn’t rush forward. Didn’t smile. Didn’t move at all.She just stared at me.As if she couldn’t believe it. And like she didn’t trust me. She took one step forward. And then another. I then saw how the expression on her face suddenly changed — from guarded to disbelief and then to relief and joy. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is that really you?”Something in my chest cracked.“It’s me,” I said quietly. “Celeste.”“You’re alive,” she said

Nico’s POVWe were in the final days at the ranch before the grand opening. Everyone was busy. “I’ll go,” I said, reaching for my jacket.Sage didn’t even look up from the clipboard. “No.”I paused. “No?”She finally lifted her head, one brow arching. “One kiss does not entitle you to field trips, hero duties, or my company in remote, possibly haunted sheds.”I almost smiled. Almost.“No matter what you think, that’s not my purpose, okay?”She snorted softly and went back to checking boxes. “I can handle it.”“I know,” I said easily. “I just want to help. Promise.”She studied me then—really studied me—like she was checking for hidden motives the way you’d check for loose boards before stepping forward.“Nothing more?” she asked.“Nothing more,” I said. “Scout’s honor.”Her lips twitched despite herself. “You were never a scout.”“I was rebellious,” I said solemnly. “It’s a character flaw.”She sighed, already defeated. “Fine. But don’t get any ideas.”“I left my ideas in the truck,”

Harper’s POVTall windows framed the street outside, Paris slipping past in slow, elegant motion. White tablecloths fell in crisp lines, untouched by wrinkles. Polished silver caught the glow from low lamps set deliberately far apart, casting small pools of light instead of flooding the room.Michael had chosen a beautiful, elegant restaurant near the fashion show venue. I should’ve been floating.Celeste had just conquered Paris. We were here to celebrate. Michael was across from me, close enough that I could reach out and touch him, his knee brushing mine beneath the table like an unspoken reassurance.Instead, my stomach was knotted so tight I could barely breathe.Michael noticed, of course.“You’ve been staring at that menu like it personally offended you,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”I looked up at him, at the ease in his posture, the pride still lingering in his eyes from the show earlier. And suddenly it felt cruel to say it. To puncture this night with something ugly and

Celeste’s POVSeveral knocks came at the door. At first, I thought they were part of my dream. But then, my eyes popped open and I saw that I was still in the hotel room. Groaning, I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face into the pillow. My phone buzzed somewhere beneath the sheets—too late, obviously. I squinted at the clock and swore.I had overslept.“Coming,” I called hoarsely, dragging myself upright. My hair was a disaster. My mouth tasted like hotel coffee and bad decisions. I grabbed the nearest robe, tied it crookedly, and shuffled toward the door.It was probably Michael. Or Harper. One of them, judging me silently already.I yanked the door open.And froze.Damien Vaughn stood there, impeccably dressed, coffee in one hand, the picture of composed menace and control——and then he took one look at me and broke.He laughed. Actually laughed.“Oh my God,” I said faintly. “No. No. What are you even doing here?”“Good morning to you too,” he said, eyes openly amused as they

Celeste’s POVMontmartre felt different from the rest of Paris.Quieter. Softer. As if the city itself had exhaled and decided to linger in the moment instead of rushing past it.We wandered uphill without a plan. Everything felt lighter—my steps, my thoughts, even the way I breathed. The cobblestone streets glowed under the late afternoon sun, artists lining the square with easels and charcoal-stained fingers, music drifting lazily from somewhere unseen.I stopped short when a street artist caught my eye.“Portrait?” he asked, gesturing between Damien and me. “Just for fun.”I hesitated instinctively, already shaking my head—when Damien spoke.“Why not?” he said easily. “To commemorate your breakthrough.”I turned to him. “My what?”He smiled. “This day. This moment. You.”Something warm fluttered in my chest. Against my better judgment, I nodded. “Okay. Just… for fun.”The artist guided us to a quiet corner of the square, positioning his stool, studying us with sharp, assessing eye