All Chapters of Married to my ex-husband's boss: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

ELLERaymond's face changed—something like wonder softened everything. “I won’t stop,” he said, and it wasn’t bravado. It was a vow. “I can’t take back the years you lost. I can’t erase what he did. But I will protect you now. From everything. From rumors, from men like him, from the past that keeps trying to bleed into our present. I promise.”Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, a sweet, astonished ache. It was dangerous to trust words—people had used them to hurt me before—but his hands were warm and steady. The truth felt steadier when it carried weight like that.“Why didn’t your aunt tell me when I met her the first time?” I asked, my voice soft.He sighed. “She… she was trying to protect me. She thought that if you knew that I had been there, it would complicate you further. She assumed distance was better for both of us. She was wrong, and she knows that now.” He let out a breath that sounded like surrender. “But Aunt Althea also saved me. She made me leave to keep me out

RaymondThe woman stopped midway down the path, then turned back. Elle didn’t even have to call her again—the woman’s feet strolled as if some thread had been tugged. When she reached us she looked like a person who had been holding her breath for a long time, lips pulled into a grim, rehearsed smile that had finally given up.Elle stepped forward, eyes boring into the woman as if she could force the truth out with pressure alone. “When we were in Mr. Hart’s office,” she said, her voice low. “Someone was eavesdropping in the corridor. I didn’t see their face. I wasn’t looking. But I remember the trousers—brown cotton, worn at the knees. Not staff, not a delivery uniform.”The woman’s hands trembled. Her eyes dropped to her legs as if seeing them for the first time—to her brown pants—then wandered up to the name tag pinned to her blouse. Michelle Hart, it read in a small, tired font.The small, ugly thing inside me that catalogues people’s tells straightened like a hunting dog. Clinto

ELLEThe first thing I noticed when I woke up was the quiet.I rolled over, stretching my arm across the sheets, but the space beside me was cold. Raymond hadn’t been in bed for a while. My chest tightened just slightly. He never left without saying something—not unless something was weighing heavily on him.But these days it had been different. I pushed the covers aside and sat up, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. Maybe he was in the bathroom. I padded across the carpet and cracked the door open, half-expecting the sound of running water.But the bathroom was empty. The mirror was spotless, no fog, no steam clinging to the glass.“He didn’t even shower in here…” I whispered to myself.A knot formed in my stomach, but I shook it off and turned the faucet on. I took off my clothes. The water warmed quickly, spilling over my skin. I leaned against the wall of the shower, letting it wash the sleep away.Memories tugged at me, uninvited but vivid.Another morning, months ag

ELLE The next morning, I tried not to make it obvious, but my eyes kept trailing after Raymond. Every move he made pulled at me like a thread I couldn’t stop tugging. I told myself I was only being cautious, watching for a slip, but the truth was harder—I was starving for answers, for anything that would quiet the gnawing in my chest. He moved through the penthouse like it was just another morning. The rich smell of coffee drifted from the machine as he poured it into a mug, steam rising against the glass windows. He scrolled casually through his tablet, the faint glow reflecting in his eyes. He even dared to smirk at me, like nothing in the world was wrong. “Elle,” he said, voice low and teasing, leaning his hip against the counter. “If you keep staring at that croissant like that, it’s going to start telling you its secrets.” I glanced down. My butter knife hovered midair, pressed against the same spot of bread I hadn’t managed to spread for the past five minutes. Heat crept up

Elle Raymond kept stealing glances at me, though he probably thought I didn’t notice. I stayed propped against the pillows, my book open in my lap. The morning light streamed through the curtains, softening the room around us, but nothing could soften the weight pressing on my chest. Each time I turned a page, I did it too quickly and sharply—more to drown out the silence than to follow the story. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. Not after the distance, not after all the questions he refused to answer. Words itched at the back of my throat, but I swallowed them down. What was the point of asking when he only met me with silence? Even yesterday's accusation met his ignoring too, which broke my heart. So I said nothing. Not about breakfast. Not about the way he moved around the room, tugging on his jacket like he was preparing for battle instead of a day in Paris. I refused to give him the smile he seemed to be searching for. Then his voice broke through it, soft, almost car