All Chapters of Affair With My my Ex's Billionaire Father : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Milo should have known the moment he stepped inside,the air was wrong.The warehouse was too clean. Too silent. Not even the echo of footsteps on steel catwalks. Just dust, shadows, and the low hum of something waiting to explode.He moved across the wide-open floor with twelve of his best men, the heavy silence pressing down like a storm. Overhead, the skylights glared pale and sharp. There were too many blind spots. Too many exits. It was like the place had been scrubbed of life,cleansed, in preparation for death.Too perfect.“Hold formation,” Milo said, voice low and clipped. No fear. Only calculation.Then.The first shot came from the left. A single crack. Then a storm.Gunfire erupted from the rafters. Flashes of muzzle light lit up the dark corners like strobe lights in a nightmare. Half his men were hit before they could even react,clean shots, precise and merciless.They’d walked into a kill zone.“Ambush!” someone shouted, before their voice was cut short by a bullet to t

The warehouse was quieter now.Only the groan of cooling metal and the slow drip of blood from overhead pipes broke the silence. A body twitched once near the door,nerves, not life,and then stilled. Milo walked through the carnage like a ghost returning home.Smoke curled from a shattered light overhead. Bullet casings littered the ground like confetti at a funeral. The air was thick with gunpowder, sweat, and the stench of death.His blade,matte black, still warm,hung loosely in his hand. Blood slicked the grip, trailing down his wrist, soaking into his coat. He didn’t care.He hadn’t come for answers.He came to erase.Zoya’s men,fifteen in total,had been waiting for a deal that never came. They'd expected to meet a contact. Instead, they met Milo.The first two went down silently. The next six tried to fight. That part didn’t last long.Now there were bodies against every wall, some piled like discarded furniture. One man had been nailed to the support beam with a wrench through th

The baby was finally sleeping.I hadn’t named him.Not yet.Somehow, between the blood and the gunfire, between Daria’s shadow and Milo’s endless wars, the space for something as sacred as a name had been lost.Like it had no room to bloom in all this wreckage.Like naming him would make him real,and real things could be taken.His breath whispered against Milo’s shirt, the one I’d pulled from the bathroom floor in a panic,torn and smoke-drenched, still stained with the ghost of a gunfight. It smelled like adrenaline, like aftershave and steel. Like him.I held the child tighter, as if his chest against mine could silence the chaos in my bones. But my body was unraveling, inch by inch.My eyelids were sandpaper. My legs trembled beneath me. The blood in my veins dragged like syrup, and still,still,I didn’t lie down. Couldn’t.My gaze was fixed on the door.That hollow space where Daria had stood not long ago, her fingers grazing my child’s head like it meant something.And then she wa

They brought her in bruised.Hands zip-tied. Dried blood at the corner of her lip.She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake. She just looked at me,like she already knew what I’d decide.The room was cold.Not from temperature.From silence.Milo stood beside her. Jaw tight. Blood drying beneath his fingernails. His eyes locked on me, waiting.But this wasn’t his decision.This time, the power sat in my hands.I held the note.He belongs with me.Five words. Neat, patient handwriting. Folded and placed in my son’s crib like a curse wrapped in silk.I hadn’t slept. My body still ached from labor, stitched with thread and adrenaline. I should’ve felt weak.But rage fills cracks adrenaline can’t.“Do you recognize this?” I asked.Daria didn’t blink. “No.”“You’re sure?”“I helped you deliver him,” she said. “I wrapped him in your arms. I didn’t leave that.”“She vanished after,” Milo growled. “No trace. No clearance.”“I was taken,” she snapped. “Zoya’s father’s men. They knew everything about yo

The door hissed open.I didn’t lift my head.I was curled on the panic room floor, eyes swollen, the taste of copper on my tongue from biting it too hard when I cried. My arms were wrapped tight around my waist, like if I squeezed hard enough, I could pretend he was still inside me.Still safe. Still mine.Then I smelled him.Milo.Blood. Leather. Gunpowder. And something else,something warm I didn’t want to need. Something that reminded me of safety when I didn’t deserve it.He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there in silence, the air between us thick with grief and something close to guilt. Then he crouched beside me slowly, like I was a feral animal he didn’t want to spook.I didn’t look up.“I shouldn’t have locked you in,” he said.My throat pulsed, but I kept my mouth shut.“I was scared. Not for me. For you.”Still, I didn’t move.Then his arms wrapped around me. Strong. Solid. Everything in me ached to collapse into him, to cry into the space between his collarbone and throa