บททั้งหมดของ WANTING MY BILLIONAIRE EX-WIFE: บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

The quiet in the suite was too heavy to be peaceful. Ximena sat up slowly, the silken sheets slipping off her shoulders like a memory she didn’t want to keep. The room was still, untouched since last night—except for the red box on the console near the door. She hadn’t dreamt it. It was still real. She rose without thinking, her bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floor, and crossed the suite with sharp, deliberate movements. She opened the safe. The gloves were there, resting like folded shadows. But the note—gone.There had been a note. Not left by her. Left *for* her. Last night, she’d placed it inside the box for safekeeping. Just a sentence. Just a test. Now it was missing.Her throat tightened, not with fear, but with something colder. Intrusion. She shut the safe slowly and stood for a moment, staring at her reflection in the dark glass of the minibar. The idea of being watched—it wasn’t new. But being *touched*, being accessed, that was different. And whoever di

The thread glowed under the lamplight like blood spun into silk.Ximena sat cross-legged on the chaise in her suite, her tablet beside her, sketchbook open on her lap. She’d pinned the red thread directly against the original Crimson Core sketch—the exact design that had been traced and returned to her in that envelope.It matched. Exactly. Same tensile sheen. Same cut finish.This wasn’t a coincidence— it can never be called a coincidence!She traced her finger over the faint pencil etching beneath the hem of the traced version: *Look again.*She had. And now she couldn’t stop.The ghost stitch was still there in the traced version—two subtle lines placed precisely in the shoulder seam. But something still nagged at her. She picked up the envelope again and ran her fingers across the inside. Nothing. Not even a hair or a scent.Then she held the traced sketch under the desk lamp. Slowly. Angled it from the bottom edge toward the top. The shadows shifted across the page—and there, bar

*Backstage – Minutes After the Show*Applause still echoed faintly beyond the curtains as Ximena stepped into her private dressing area. The red-lined replica gown clung to her like smoke, its altered silhouette now an imprint on her skin. It wasn’t hers. But it had obeyed her.“Señorita Antonio—just one quote for the post-show?” a stylist called. Another reached to adjust her hair for a final press photo.She walked past them.Polite, but unreachable.Inside her dressing room, the silence wrapped around her like armour. She shut the door, unzipped the gown, and let it slide off her shoulders. Carefully, reverently, she laid it flat across the design table under the lamplight.Her fingers moved with instinct—checking the seams, lifting the folds, pressing under the lining. Looking for a second message. Another sign. Another handprint on her work.Nothing.But she wasn’t disappointed. She wasn’t scared.She was calculating.Ximena tapped her tablet awake and opened the encrypted thread

The Paris skyline had barely woken, washed in a bone-gray light as Ximena stood barefoot by the window of her hotel suite. She was still wearing her silk robe from the night before, but the only warmth in the room came from the coffee cooling beside her.The photograph lay on the table.Miguel. Across from her. The rooftop restaurant. Her chin tilted just enough to look like she was listening. His eyes locked on her like he still hadn’t learned how to blink around her. Someone had caught the moment perfectly—too perfectly.And under the photo, a handwritten note in familiar ink:**He’s already closer to your destruction than you think.**Her thumb brushed the edge of the envelope. It had been delivered quietly—“from a gentleman,” the hotel clerk had said. She didn’t have to guess who.Her phone buzzed. A secure notification. **Marco.**She answered immediately. “Talk.”“I found your intern,” Marco said, voice low and gruff. “Bruno Estevez. He accessed your Crimson Core vault two year

By the time Ximena returned to her suite at Hotel Virelle, the sun was high but her thoughts were shadowed. She moved like a woman walking through fog, only sharper—her silence no longer defensive, but intentional.She was being mirrored.Her designs. Her actions. Her silence.And now, her memories.She closed the door behind her and shrugged off her coat. The suite was still, draped in late-afternoon warmth and the scent of white gardenias—someone from housekeeping had replaced the vases again. It made the place feel too clean. Too staged.Her assistant had left a package on the table—square, sleek, wrapped in matte silver paper with no label.Her name wasn’t on it.That was the first sign that something was wrong.Ximena unwrapped it slowly, her fingers precise. Beneath the paper was a flat black box. Expensive. Familiar.A garment box.Inside lay a gown.Her breath stalled.It was one of hers. **Almost**.The silhouette was unmistakable—architectural lines, asymmetric neckline, cri