Semua Bab No Way to Win Me Back: Bab 481 - Bab 490

Ryan’s POVI used to think exhaustion had a ceiling. That there was a point where your body simply refused to go further, where even obligation couldn’t push you past the edge. Crown Luxe taught me otherwise.By the time I sat across from the client in the glass-walled conference room on the forty-second floor, I was already running on something thinner than fumes. Adrenaline, maybe. Spite. Habit. The skyline outside looked surgically clean, steel and ambition and money, but my head was loud, cluttered with numbers, headlines, and one name I wasn’t allowed to say out loud anymore.Celeste.The client was punctual, immaculate, mid-fifties, the kind of man who smiled without warmth. His assistant hovered near the door, tablet in hand. Mine, Maximilian’s, really, had already slipped out after the introductions. Privacy, my father had said. As if this room ever belonged to me.“We’ll get straight to it,” the client said, folding his hands. “I’ll be honest, Ryan. When we first reached out,

Celeste’s POVThe flyer was thin enough that I almost missed it.It lay on the coffee table, half tucked under a stack of unpaid magazines and Molly’s coloring book, the edges curling slightly like it had been folded and unfolded too many times. White paper. Bold black letters. Clinical. Efficient.FREE CONSULTATION. CONFIDENTIAL. NO JUDGMENT.My chest dropped so hard it felt like I’d missed a step on the stairs.I stood there for a long moment, keys still in my hand, coat still on, staring at it like it might bite me if I looked too closely. Grace was a little over two months pregnant. I knew that. I’d counted the weeks with her, in my head, quietly, the way you do when you’re worried but don’t want to hover. She hadn’t told many people. She’d told me because she trusted me.Or at least, I’d thought she did.I picked the flyer up. The paper was warm, like it had been handled recently. Folded. Carried. Considered.My stomach twisted.Grace’s bedroom door was open. She was in the kitche

Ryan’s POVThe tablet landed on my desk like a verdict.I did not touch it at first. I already knew what was on the screen. I could feel it in my bones, the particular dread that only came when the past was being sharpened into a weapon.Maximilian stood across from me, immaculate as always, his suit pressed within an inch of its life. Mr. Davis hovered a step behind him, expression unreadable, hands folded. The office suddenly felt smaller, the glass walls less transparent, like they were thickening to keep the air from escaping.“Press play,” my father said calmly.I did not.He nodded once, and Mr. Davis reached forward, tapping the screen. The video started.There I was. On a stage I had never wanted to stand on. Cameras were flashing. Microphones were angled like spears. And then, my voice. Clear. Unwavering.“I love Celeste Sinclair.”The words echoed in the office, louder than they had been that day. Or maybe I was just hearing them without adrenaline now, without the chaos to b

Celeste’s POVI’d been rehearsing the conversation in my head for days, and still, when Vivian sat across from me at the small dining table, I felt unprepared.The apartment was too quiet. Molly was at school. The absence of her noise, the hum of cartoons, the scrape of crayons, the soft thud of her feet padding around, made everything feel exposed. Like this conversation had been waiting for the silence.Vivian wrapped both hands around her coffee mug, posture straight, composed. She looked exactly like she always did on video calls: immaculate, controlled, beautiful in that effortless way that suggested she had never needed to bend herself around anyone else’s needs.“So,” she said lightly. “You wanted to talk.”I nodded, fingers laced together so tightly my knuckles ached. “Yes. About Molly.”Something flickered in her eyes. Guarded. Maternal. Territorial.“I assumed,” Vivian said, “this was coming.”I took a breath. Slow. Careful. “You asked if Molly could come live with you.”“I

Celeste’s POVMolly had started moving through the apartment like she was afraid of disturbing something fragile.It was subtle at first. A hesitation in the doorway before coming into the kitchen. The way she’d hover beside me instead of tugging my hand like she used to. How she’d watch my face when she spoke, as if checking whether her words were safe to land.At night, it became impossible to ignore.She clung to me when I tucked her in, small arms tight around my waist, her cheek pressed against my stomach like she was bracing herself. When I tried to pull back, even just to reach for the bedside lamp, her grip tightened.“Just a little longer,” she’d whisper.So I stayed. Longer than necessary. Longer than was healthy, maybe. I lay beside her, counting the soft rise and fall of her breathing, pretending not to notice how she only relaxed once she was certain I wasn’t going anywhere.Something was wrong. I felt it in my bones.I ran through possibilities like a checklist I couldn’t