All Chapters of The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Marcus’s Point of View The Chicago skyline loomed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, a jagged silhouette against the gray dawn, as I stood before the mirror, adjusting the knot of my tie. The navy suit was tailored to perfection, crisp and commanding, but it felt like armor, a shield against the storm I was about to face. Vanessa’s press conference had set the city ablaze with lies—her tearful accusations that I’d seduced her, gotten her pregnant, and forced her to abort our child, with Ella as my accomplice. The headlines screamed betrayal, painting me as a monster, dragging Carter’s Wine into the mud. #MarcusCarterScandal trended relentlessly, each tweet a fresh cut. I’d come back from Venice to douse the flames, to reclaim my name, my legacy, and—most importantly—Ella. She was mine, my wife, and no scandal, no lies, no flight across an ocean would change that. I’d spent the night preparing for the press conference, rehearsing every word, every gesture. My PR

Amanda’s Point of ViewThe television screen’s harsh glow filled my Chicago living room, casting jagged shadows that mirrored the horror clawing at my chest. Marcus Carter stood at a podium, his navy suit flawless, his voice a calculated blend of remorse and defiance, addressing a throng of reporters. His press conference was a chilling performance, each word a carefully crafted lie as he painted himself as a wronged husband, betrayed by a greedy mistress. I watched, nausea churning, as he accused Vanessa of blackmail, dismissed her miscarriage as her own fault, and—most sickeningly—begged the world to help him find Ella, offering ten thousand dollars for any lead. My cousin, my closest friend, was being hunted like a fugitive, and the man orchestrating it was her husband—a vile, self-obsessed predator who cared only for his own desires.I sank deeper into the couch, my hands shaking, the remote slipping to the floor. How had Ella fallen for him? Marcus’s tears, his trembling voice a

Ella’s Point of ViewVenice’s narrow alleys were my haven, a labyrinth where I’d learned to slip through the world unseen. For weeks, I’d hidden in Cannaregio, my life a fragile web of vigilance—unpredictable paths, cash payments, a burner phone that stayed silent. I’d dyed my hair blonde, cut it to my neck, and taken the name Clara Rossi, a shield against the life I’d fled. But the stress was a constant predator, deepening the nausea and fatigue of my pregnancy. The morning sickness had worsened, a relentless reminder of the child I carried—my secret, my reason to keep running from Marcus. I couldn’t let him find me, couldn’t let him use our baby to trap me in a marriage shattered by his betrayal.That morning, the nausea was a tidal wave, forcing me out of the small pensione where I’d found refuge. The room was simple but secure, tucked in a quiet courtyard, run by a kind older woman who asked no questions. I’d been meticulous, avoiding crowded areas, but I needed relief—something

Ella’s Point of ViewThe Venetian escape was a frantic blur, my boots slapping against the slick cobblestones as I wove through Cannaregio’s labyrinth of alleys, the old buildings pressing in like silent conspirators. The night air was sharp and damp, the canals glinting under scattered lamplight, their reflections fractured like my fleeting hope. Marcus’s roar—“Ella!”—echoed behind me, his heavy footsteps and those of his men pounding closer, a relentless hunt I knew I couldn’t outrun forever. My lungs burned, tears streaming down my face, my blonde hair—cropped to my neck as Clara Rossi—sticking to my sweat-soaked scarf. My pregnancy’s nausea was a dull ache beneath the adrenaline, but I pushed on, driven by one truth: Marcus would never stop. I needed a miracle to escape his grasp.I darted into a narrow calle, its walls slick with moss, the canal’s edge a perilous drop to my right. Marcus’s voice grew louder, his men fanning out, their shouts bouncing off the ancient facades. I

Marcus’s Point of ViewThe Venetian night was a cruel tease, its canals shimmering under the moon like a mirror of my failure. I stood at the edge of a deserted calle in Cannaregio, my breath ragged, my navy coat damp with mist as I scanned the shadows for her—Ella, my wife, who’d slipped through my fingers just hours ago. Her shove, her desperate flight into the alleys, had been a gut punch, her defiance a fire I hadn’t anticipated. I’d been so close, her arm in my grip, her tear-streaked face inches from mine, but she’d outmaneuvered me, vanishing into Venice’s labyrinth. My men had scoured the city, their boots pounding every bridge and piazza, but she was gone, a ghost I couldn’t catch. I wouldn’t stop, though. She was mine, and I’d tear the world apart to bring her home.That night bled into days, a relentless hunt that consumed me. I barely slept, my eyes burning as I coordinated with Rico, my lead bounty hunter, and his team, their reports a litany of dead ends. We checked ev