Lahat ng Kabanata ng Affair With My my Ex's Billionaire Father : Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

Emilie’s POVI’d barely slept.The box with the necklace sat on my dresser, untouched since I screamed Milo’s name.He hadn’t said anything when I showed him. Not a word. Just took the box in his hands, turned it once, then again. Stared at it as if the velvet itself might spill secrets.He didn’t speak. Didn’t rage. Didn’t pace or curse or shatter the nearest glass.Just silence.Cold. Measured. Bone-deep silence.And that scared me more than any scream ever could.Because I’d seen Milo angry before, furious, blood-slicked, roaring. But this… this stillness? It was lethal. A blade waiting to strike.That night, he didn’t hold me.Didn’t speak as I curled beneath the sheets, the locket box resting between us like a ghost from a past I hadn’t been ready to face.And then this morning, his voice broke the stillness.“Get dressed.”That was all he said.No questions.No answers.Nothing fancy, just black.I’d chosen a long-sleeved top and fitted pants, something easy to move in, not know

Emilie’s POVThe war came like thunder, sudden, loud, and impossible to ignore.Two days after the wedding, one of Milo’s shipping yards in Naples went up in flames. Eight of his men were killed. Another found skinned and hung upside down at the city gates.Zoya’s father wasn’t sending messages anymore.He was sending executions.I didn’t get to say goodbye when they pulled me from the estate.Boris showed up with a black coat, a bag I didn’t pack, and a look that told me not to argue.“Milo said you go underground,” he said. “Now.”The hideout was quiet. Too quiet. A stone house tucked into the side of a forested hill, the windows shuttered, the floors bare.It smelled of cedar and old dust.Boris didn’t speak much the first day. He stood by the door like a soldier, checking the perimeter every few hours, drinking bitter coffee in silence.I spent most of the time wrapped in one of Milo’s old sweaters, curled on the cot by the fireplace, trying not to unravel.But I was alone with m

Emilie’s POVThe clinic smelled like antiseptic and flowers someone had left to die in the corner.A sad little bouquet sat by the window, petals drooping, their color drained like they’d been trying to hold on too long in a place meant for letting go.I laid still. The sheets beneath me were stiff and sterile, their rough texture rubbing against my skin like paper. The gown they gave me barely clung to my shoulders. I hadn’t bothered to fix it. Everything about me felt loose, frayed at the seams. I was cold and sweating all at once.My body didn’t feel like mine.Not anymore.There was an ache low in my belly that pulsed like a second heartbeat, tight, sharp, then dull again. The bleeding had slowed, but every time I shifted, I swore I could feel something shifting inside me too. Something small. Something fragile. Something I was terrified to name.The doctors had been vague, reassuring in a way that meant nothing.“It could be stress.”“The baby might be okay.”“We won’t know any

Emilie’s POVThe screen flickered,once, twice, then steadied.Julian was tied to the same steel chair, blood dried at the corners of his mouth. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes held. Proud. Bruised.Milo stood before him in shadow. Calm. Unmoving.“She’s not working alone,” Milo said, voice smooth, almost bored. “You know it. You’ve always known.”Julian smiled through the blood. “You think she tells me everything? You think any of us trust you?”Milo didn’t blink. “You weren’t supposed to lie to me.”“I’m not lying.” Julian’s voice was rough, but steady. “You’re just not worth the truth.”Silence.A beat.Then Milo leaned forward, blade glinting in one hand. “Last chance.”Julian’s smile wavered. He swallowed hard.“She’s deeper than you think,” he said. “But if you’re expecting me to give you names…”He stopped.Milo tilted his head. “Yes?”“I’d rather die.”“You already have.”The blade moved too fast for the camera to catch. One clean, horizontal stroke.Julian gasped. A w

Emilie’s POVIt started like a cramp.Small. Manageable. A passing squeeze in my lower belly as I folded my legs beneath me on the chaise lounge. I pressed my hand there absentmindedly, rubbing slow circles while staring at the same paragraph I’d been reading for the last ten minutes.But then it came again. Sharper this time. Deeper.A twist that stole the air from my lungs.I dropped the book.At first, I told myself it was just stress. My body was reacting to too much adrenaline, too many sleepless nights. But when the next wave came,hot and hard and terrifying. I gripped the edge of the lounge with both hands, breathing fast through my nose.My stomach coiled.My vision swam.And I knew.Something was wrong.I tried to stand, to call for help, but the pain curled me back in half. A sob tore from my throat before I could stop it.“Milo,” I gasped. “Milo…!”He found me five minutes later.I was on the floor, half-conscious and shaking. Sweat soaked through my shirt, plastering it to