Semua Bab The 18 Billion Wife He Abandoned : Bab 11 - Bab 20

Emma stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror of the arena’s executive suite. The scarlet blazer Lisa had insisted on made her look confident, powerful—like someone who belonged in the owner’s box, not the wives’ section. Her newly styled hair framed her face in soft waves, and subtle makeup enhanced her features without being overdone. “You look like a Mitchell,” she told her reflection. A gentle knock sounded at the door. “Five minutes, Ms. Mitchell,” called Walter, her grandfather’s ever-reliable assistant. “The team meeting is assembling.” “Thank you, Walter.” Emma took a deep breath, gathering the notecards with her prepared remarks. Most of the organization already knew about the announcement—the PR team, key executives, equipment managers. But the players, including Jack, were about to be informed just minutes before the press conference. In the hallway, Alek waited, impeccable in a charcoal suit. His professional mask was firmly in place, but his eyes softened when he s

“The league substance program requires minimum thirty days,” Dr. Marcus explained, his clinical tone matching the sterile conference room. “With Reynolds’ profile, they’ll likely recommend the full ninety.” Emma nodded, reviewing the confidential medical report. Two weeks had passed since Jack’s meltdown and subsequent entry into the league’s treatment program. As team owner, she received minimal updates on his progress—just enough to make personnel decisions. “And his condition?” she asked. Dr. Marcus adjusted his glasses. “Preliminary assessment shows stress-induced substance dependency. Nothing exotic—alcohol primarily, with occasional pharmaceutical abuse. Treatable with proper support.” “Will he play again this season?” “Medically speaking, possibly. With strict monitoring.” The doctor closed his file. “But that’s your decision, Ms. Mitchell, not mine.” After he left, Emma remained at the conference table where the team’s executive committee had gathered for their monthly meeting

Adaptation proved more challenging than expected. By week’s end, Jack had indeed demonstrated his commitment—arriving first to practice, leaving last, volunteering for community events, even reconnecting with teammates who’d grown distant during his spiral. More unexpected was the public’s response. When Jack gave an exclusive interview to Sports Illustrated about his recovery journey, fan sentiment shifted dramatically. Social media filled with supportive messages, signs appeared at games urging his return to the lineup, and merchandise sales bearing his number increased for the first time in months. “The redemption narrative is powerful,” Lisa explained during their weekly PR meeting. “Right now, the public is rooting for him. If we trade him at this moment, we risk significant backlash.” “We can’t make personnel decisions based on public sentiment,” Alek argued. “But we can’t ignore it either,” countered Marketing Director Peterson. “Reynolds’ jersey sales are up thirty percent sin

After they hung up, Emma scrolled through the day’s coverage, unable to resist despite knowing better. Most articles were speculative garbage, but a few raised legitimate questions about the appearance of impropriety—the optics of trading her ex-husband while dating another team executive. She was about to put her phone away when a text arrived from a Seattle number she didn’t recognize: Thought you should see this. He’s already making waves here. -V Attached was a screenshot of Jack at what appeared to be a Seattle nightclub, surrounded by women, clearly not maintaining the sobriety he’d so earnestly promised to uphold. Veronica Wells, Emma realized. Somehow the supermodel was still keeping tabs on Jack. The timestamp showed the photo was from last night—his first in Seattle, fresh off claiming unfair treatment by Boston management. Emma didn’t respond to the text, but she saved the photo. Not for leverage or revenge, but as a reminder that Jack’s contrition had indeed been performan

Hours later, they lay tangled in the sheets of the master bedroom, the panoramic windows revealing snowflakes still dancing in the moonlight. The storm had intensified, transforming their weekend retreat into a true isolation—no chance of unexpected visitors or press intrusions. “Hungry?” Alek asked, tracing patterns on Emma’s bare shoulder. “Starving.” She stretched languidly. “You mentioned something about cooking skills?” “Give me twenty minutes.” He kissed her forehead before sliding from the bed, pulling on lounge pants. Emma watched appreciatively as he moved around the room, struck by how comfortable this felt—as if they’d been doing this for years rather than a first weekend away together. She eventually borrowed his discarded shirt and followed him to the kitchen, where he was efficiently preparing what looked like an elaborate pasta dish. “Can I help?” she offered, hopping onto a barstool at the counter. “Just keep me company.” Alek worked with the same focused precision he