All Chapters of The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Marcus’s Point of View Rage pulsed through my veins like poison, each heartbeat fueling the fury Vanessa had ignited. Her words in my office still echoed in my head, sharp and cruel: she had destroyed my marriage, sent the messages and photos to Ella, all out of jealousy, out of a twisted obsession she called love. And now, this baby—a baby I never wanted, that I had begged her not to keep—was the chain she wanted to use to bind me to her. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t go after Ella in Venice with this shadow hanging over me. I needed to settle this first. I left the Carter’s Wine office without even telling Gemma, my blood boiling as I drove to Vanessa’s apartment. The streets of Chicago blurred past, the skyscrapers and traffic a hazy smear as my mind spun. Ella was in Venice, so far away, trying to rebuild the life I had shattered. And Vanessa, with her manipulation, had been the one to throw the final shovelful of dirt on our marriage. I needed to end this, to make her

Ella’s Point of View The air seemed to have been sucked out of the hallway when I saw Marcus standing there at the door of my apartment in Venice. My heart raced, a mix of shock, anger, and a pain so deep I could barely breathe. He was really here. After everything—the betrayal, the lies, the photos with Vanessa—he had found me. His eyes, sunken and red, as if he hadn’t slept in days, met mine, and for a moment, the world stopped. Looking into his eyes after so much disappointment was like reliving every stab he’d driven into my heart. I wanted to scream, slam the door, erase him from my life, but my feet were frozen to the floor, held captive by memories I fought to bury. “Marcus, what are you doing here?” My voice came out cold, but it trembled at the edges, betraying the storm inside me. “Go away.” “Ella, please,” he said, his voice hoarse, dripping with desperation. He took a step forward, hands raised as if surrendering. “Let me come in. Let me talk to you. I know I hurt you,

Ella’s Point of View The sound of the rain outside seemed to amplify the turmoil within me. Marcus was sitting on the couch in my living room, the towel still in his hands, his presence invading my space like a heavy cloud. I could barely breathe. Every word he spoke, every pleading look, was like a rope trying to pull me back to a past I was fighting to leave behind. I needed space, a moment to pull myself together, to think. “Stay there,” I muttered, without looking at him, and hurried to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. In the silence of the bathroom, I leaned against the sink, gripping the edge tightly, my heart pounding. I looked at my reflection in the mirror—red eyes, tired face, a woman trying to be strong but feeling like she was crumbling. How could he not see? How could Marcus be so selfish, so self-centered, that he ignored how much his presence hurt me? He kept talking about love, about chances, as if his sweet words could erase the betrayal, the lies, the l

Ella’s Point of View The realization hit me like a cold wave crashing over my carefully laid plans: no matter where I went, Marcus would find me. Even if I fled to Melbourne, to another country, to a new specialization program, his resources were vast, his determination relentless. With the billions of Carter’s Wine behind him, he could track me down, hire investigators, pull strings. I couldn’t just relocate—I had to disappear, to live anonymously, to become a ghost until Marcus finally gave up and forgot about me. The thought was both terrifying and liberating. I was pregnant, carrying a child I’d protect at all costs, and I couldn’t let Marcus use our baby to chain me to a life of lies. I had to act fast, before he realized what I was doing. While Marcus was out, consumed with his search for a house that would never be ours, I set my plan in motion. The romantic dinner at Osteria al Ponte had bought me time, his excitement over my suggestion blinding him to my true intentions.

Vanessa’s Point of View The narrow Venetian alley smelled of damp stone and salt, the canal’s sluggish ripples catching the fading light as I stood there, my heart pounding with a cocktail of rage and humiliation. Marcus’s words still burned in my ears, each one a dagger: “You’ll never have a chance with me. I love Ella. Go home.” His rejection had been brutal, final, his face twisted with a disgust that made me feel small, worthless. I’d followed him across an ocean, from Chicago to this romantic, infuriating city, believing our last conversation in Paris had meant something. We’d talked for hours that night, his eyes soft, his voice heavy with guilt over the baby—our baby. I’d thought I saw a crack in his resolve, a chance for us, but I was a fool. He’d played me, stringing me along only to cast me aside for her, for Ella, his perfect little wife. Now, as I watched him climb into his car and drive off, tires crunching on the cobblestones, my tears fell hot and bitter, rage