บททั้งหมดของ WANTING MY BILLIONAIRE EX-WIFE: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

The sun barely filtered through the glass walls of Antonio Fashion’s headquarters, but already the floor was humming. Rafael paced outside the boardroom with two tablets in hand, his face tight.Ximena watched from inside her office, sipping black coffee, calm despite the static around her.The **Uncloned Line** had dropped just eight hours ago. No announcement. No credits. Just one sentence: *“The original cannot be replicated.”*And now?It was **everywhere**.Screens in design houses from Tokyo to Milan ran the teaser. Anti-AI fashion activists posted breakdowns of its symbolism. High-end editors called it “a middle finger dressed in silk.” Some board members who had previously demanded her resignation had already gone silent.But Rafael’s tension wasn’t from success.It was from the **new mess** success that always invited.He entered without knocking.“Two things,” he said, setting both tablets on her desk. “One urgent. One worse.”She raised an eyebrow. “Start with urgent.”He t

Cristina checked her watch again, her hand shaking slightly as she tugged her cap lower over her eyes.The private hangar was quiet, the tarmac bathed in harsh white light. Only one jet sat on the far end, already fueled, its tail number cleared for a discreet exit. She clutched her phone tightly, scanning for her contact. No one had shown. Just the pilot, waiting near the jet steps.She exhaled, relieved.Then she heard the car door shut behind her.A slow, deliberate click.She didn’t have to turn to know it wasn’t the driver.Marco stood near a black SUV, hands in his pockets, sunglasses still on though the sun hadn’t risen. His stance was relaxed, but Cristina knew that posture—it meant danger was nearby. Probably behind her.“Going somewhere?” Marco asked casually.Cristina stiffened.“I don’t know who you are—”“Sure you do,” he said. “I’m the one who doesn’t call the police first.”She hesitated. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I was—”“Paid. Pressured. Lied to. I’ve hear

The boardroom inside Antonio Fashion’s flagship headquarters was unusually silent.No PR handlers. No designers fluttering with fabric swatches. No stylists or camera crews. Just polished wood, glass, and ten individuals who had been hand-selected by Ximena herself.Three luxury investors, two global retail partners, a digital strategist from Dubai, Rafael, and two of her most trusted legal advisors. The room pulsed with quiet importance, the kind that only came from power being carefully rearranged.Ximena entered with no theatrics. She wore a bone-white tailored dress, clean lines, no jewellery, her hair swept into a sharp twist. Confidence radiated off her—not in bursts, but in steady, calculated heat.Rafael followed behind, holding a thin folder in one hand and his phone in the other. He didn’t speak.Ximena walked to the head of the table, set her tablet down, and offered a nod of acknowledgement.“This isn’t a press preview,” she began, her tone cool but unyielding. “There’s no

The morning sun poured through the windows of Antonio Fashion’s design floor, bouncing off polished glass and mirrored surfaces. But inside the executive vault room, the mood was cool and quiet.Rafael stood near the touchscreen interface, eyes narrowed at the scan report Marco had just sent him.“Two flags now,” he murmured, scrolling.File AFX–4128–F03. Flagged yesterday.File AFX–4190–C08. Flagged this morning.Different source tags. Same trace anomaly.Rafael tapped the console and brought up the internal clearance logs.Who accessed them?The usual teams—design, legal, digital R&D. But embedded deep in the clearance chain, he spotted something odd. A ghost ID code. One that hadn’t appeared in months. The tag wasn’t tied to any current staff login. No name. Just a backdoor authorisation of the Camila Antonio era.His brows furrowed.He tapped his earpiece.“Marco, did you say both trace flags came from the vault side, not the press edit branch?”“Yes,” came Marco’s voice on the ot

Ximena arrived at the office earlier than usual. The city was still shaking off its sleep; the streets were quieter, the morning air crisper. A light haze clung to the horizon, but inside the Antonio Fashion headquarters, everything already felt too loud.She didn’t wait for coffee. She didn’t even greet anyone at the reception. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she made her way to the executive wing, jaw tight, eyes focused. Rafael’s message had said only one thing: *“Come in early. Board alert.”*As she reached her door, she found Rafael standing outside it, phone in one hand, tablet in the other. He didn’t say a word. His expression was grim.Inside the office, Marco was already seated, sleeves rolled up, a tablet of his own open in front of him. One of the company’s senior legal counsels—Eduardo Marquez—sat across from him, visibly uncomfortable, a thick printed file resting on his lap.Ximena closed the door quietly behind her, then removed her coat and placed