Semua Bab The Billionaire's Ex-wife Never Looks Back : Bab 31 - Bab 40

Marcus’s Point of ViewThe Chicago skyline glittered beyond my penthouse window, a cold constellation of steel and glass that mirrored the ambition burning in my veins. I adjusted my cufflinks, the silver glinting under the chandelier’s glow, my tailored charcoal suit a armor for the battle ahead. Shawn Hayes, the billionaire investor my father, Joshua Carter, had pinned our hopes on, was the key to stabilizing Carter’s Wine. His wealth could shore up the company I’d nearly tanked, and today’s meeting at his mansion was my chance to prove I wasn’t the failure Joshua saw. But my mind wasn’t on wine or contracts—it was on Ella, always Ella, the ghost who’d haunted me for five years, her absence a wound I refused to let heal.I slid into my black Maserati, the engine’s purr a low growl as I pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, the city’s pulse humming around me. My phone buzzed, Theo’s name flashing on the screen. I answered, speaker mode crackling as his voice filled the car, all easy charm.

Ella’s Point of ViewnThe Seattle night was a quiet embrace, the city’s skyline a faint shimmer beyond my bedroom window, its soft lights filtering through the curtains like a whispered promise of safety. I lay in bed, my daughter Lily curled against me, her small body warm, her steady breaths a rhythm that anchored me. Her dark curls spilled across the pillow, her tiny hand clutching my necklace, the star pendant she’d chosen for me years ago. Five years in Seattle had woven a life I cherished—Lily’s laughter, my work at Emerson’s hospital, the fragile peace I’d built with my father. But the call from Shawn Hayes, his voice warm and urgent, had cracked that peace open, stirring a fear I’d thought I’d buried. Chicago—Marcus’s city—loomed like a storm on the horizon, and I couldn’t shake the dread that going there might unravel everything.I’d spent the day wrestling with Shawn’s request. His condition, a coarctation of the aorta, demanded a delicate surgery, one I was uniquely qualif

Marcus’s Point of ViewThe engine of my Maserati growled as I eased out of Shawn Hayes’s mansion, the gravel crunching beneath the tires, a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. The meeting with Shawn had been a dance of veiled skepticism—his polite refusal to commit to the Carter’s Wine investment, his probing questions about the company’s scandals, my scandals. His parting words, wishing me luck in finding my “wife,” had felt like a taunt, though his smile was too polished to confirm it. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening, the lake’s dark expanse a blur beyond the North Shore’s manicured estates. Five years of chasing Ella had honed my instincts, and something about Shawn—his sharp gaze, his guarded tone—set my nerves on edge. He was a rival, not just in business, though I couldn’t yet name why.As I reached the mansion’s wrought-iron gates, they swung open, and a convoy of six black SUVs rolled past, their tinted windows reflecting the dusk’s fading li

Ella’s Point of ViewMy heart was still racing as I shut the door to the guest suite, the echo of Shawn’s voice—warm, teasing, then cautious—lingering like a melody I couldn’t shake. I leaned against the door, my fingers brushing the silver star pendant at my throat, Lily’s gift, a quiet anchor in the storm of emotions Shawn had stirred. The dinner had been a dance of light and shadow—his compliments, his laughter, the way his blue eyes held mine like I was something precious. For a moment, I’d felt alive, seen in a way I hadn’t been in years, not since Marcus’s toxicity had forced me into hiding. But when Shawn mentioned Marcus, the name had been a cold jolt, dragging me back to a past I wasn’t ready to face. I’d fled, my fear a wall between me and the connection I’d almost let bloom.I exhaled, pushing off the door, the sapphire dress suddenly heavy, a reminder of the vulnerability I’d let slip. I slipped it off, trading it for a soft cotton pajama set, the pale blue fabric comfor

Marcus’s Point of View The night pressed against me, thick with lake mist and the hum of my own blood pounding in my ears, as I crouched in the shadows beyond Shawn Hayes’s mansion. My binoculars were heavy, cold against my face, but I couldn’t tear them away from the garden where two figures stood by the fountain, their silhouettes etched in moonlight. Shawn, frail but upright, was unmistakable, his careful movements betraying his illness. But the woman beside him—her long, dark hair swaying, her posture both guarded and graceful—was a jolt to my core. Ella. I knew her too well, every curve, every tilt of her head burned into me over years of obsession. Five years of chasing ghosts, of dead ends in Paris, Mexico, and beyond, and now, here she was, in Chicago, so close I could almost taste her. My breath hitched, a surge of triumph and rage clawing up my throat. My fingers tightened on the binoculars, knuckles white, as I watched Shawn’s hand brush hers, a fleeting touch that ig