All Chapters of WANTING MY BILLIONAIRE EX-WIFE: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

The elevator descended past the executive floors with a low hum, gliding into the restricted levels that few at Antonio Fashion had ever seen. Ximena stood alone in the mirrored interior, her reflection motionless but charged. She hadn’t changed from the moment she ended the call with Marco—still in the same sleek navy sheath dress, still wearing the same quiet fury like armour.When the doors opened, the temperature dropped noticeably. Sublevel B was cold, both in design and atmosphere. No velvet chairs. No glass chandeliers. Just reinforced steel, matte security panels, and archive vaults sealed with biometric locks.Marco stood waiting beside Terminal 3, fingers tapping over the glowing display. The screen showed the Geneva Proxy Vault login page—Camila’s personal off-grid storage route. It had been rerouted through a legacy access point she installed before her death, hidden behind non-operational tax records and corporate liability forms.Until tonight, no one had touched it.“Y

Ximena stood behind her desk, watching the city blur through the glass behind her. The skyline looked softer today, the haze thinning, sunlight bouncing off rooftops like glitter dust. But there was nothing soft about her mood.Not today.The knock came exactly on time.“Come in,” she said.The door opened, and Rosa stepped in with hesitant confidence. A notebook was clutched tightly to her chest.“You wanted to see me?” Rosa asked, her voice smoother than yesterday. Almost as if the rooftop breakfast had reset something in her.Ximena smiled faintly. “Yes. Come in.”She gestured to the leather seat across from her.Rosa sat, legs crossed, back straight, notebook unopened.Ximena pulled open the middle drawer of her desk and set a small black USB drive on the table. Sleek. Plain. No label.“I need your help with something… discreet,” Ximena said.Rosa’s eyes flicked to the drive.“It contains internal reference sketches,” Ximena continued. “Early capsule layouts, dating before Exposur

It was almost noon when Rosa Navarro made her final mistake.She didn’t know it yet. That’s how most downfalls start—not with a scream, but with the quiet arrogance of someone who thinks they’ve gotten away with it.The hallway outside the administrative wing was unusually quiet. Most of the senior staff were at a sustainability panel, and the floor felt slower than usual—doors cracked open, office lights dim, printers humming in the distance.Rosa carried a slim silver USB in her pocket.It wasn’t the original bait Ximena had handed her days ago.This one was a **second clone**—a private backup she’d created from the USB Marco had rigged. She thought she was being clever, thought that if she modified a few of the sketches, removed the embedded ghost stitch, and cleaned the metadata, she could eliminate any forensic link between the exposure capsule and the Antonio archives.She was wrong.She entered her shared workroom with calm precision, turned on her terminal, and inserted the US

The sound of the fax machine in Santiago Cortez’s Rome office was the only thing making noise that morning.No espresso cups clinking. No stylists gossiping by the elevator. Not even Lucien was pacing in and out with updates. Just paper sliding through the feeder like the quiet beginning of a storm.Santiago stared at his reflection in the darkened glass wall, still in his shirt sleeves, his blazer thrown over the couch.He hadn’t slept much.Lucien entered quietly, holding a silver folder.“I’ve compiled the investor responses,” he said.Santiago didn’t turn.“Read them.”Lucien hesitated. “Germany—on hold. Austria—paused. Denmark—cancelled.”Santiago finally turned, expression unreadable. “All citing IP review?”Lucien nodded once. “They’re waiting for clarification from DRC Europe. Apparently, the metadata files you denied under oath… have now been mirrored across three open-source archives.”Santiago walked over to the desk and opened his laptop.The front page of *ModenTrend Conf

Paris was unusually quiet that morning.The rain had passed in the night, leaving the streets glossy with light. The marble steps of Hôtel de Verger were swept, the doors polished, the staff in place as cars rolled up one by one.It was the semi-annual **European Fashion Syndicate Luncheon**, a tradition reserved for top designers, board members, legacy houses, and a few rising power players. A place where trends weren’t just discussed — they were decided.Santiago Cortez stepped out of his black sedan and adjusted the lapels of his tailored jacket. He wore charcoal with muted gold pinstripes — subtle wealth, effortless command.Or so he thought.As he entered the gilded foyer, a few heads turned.But not in admiration.Not anymore.A quiet pause fell over the crowd before polite conversation resumed. He noticed it immediately. No greetings. No champagne tray offered. Not even a hostess at the coat check desk addressed him directly.He was used to rooms shifting when he walked in.Thi