Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Billionaire's Regret; Now He Desperately Wants Her Back.: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

POV: MichaelIt began with a whisper.Not in boardrooms or investment circles—those always came later. No, this one started in the darkest corners of the internet. A lifestyle blogger in Melbourne, known more for designer skincare reviews than deep dives, posted a cryptic update:Some skeletons wear silk. The woman who wrecked the queen? I knew her in Sydney.I wouldn’t have seen it at all if not for the alert Mark forwarded, flagged by their reputation-monitoring AI. The name in the post wasn’t Vivian’s—but the tags told a different story.#VanessaMichaelson #EmeraldHugo #VivianFromAustralia #TruthBeforeTitlesBy the time I sat down to read it, the post had over 800,000 views.I clicked. Then scrolled.And my gut went cold.I worked as a stylist at one of Sydney’s elite boutiques. She came in weekly. Blunt bob, sharp accent, sharper tongue. Went by “Viv.” Bought $30k dresses like tissues. One time, she came in bruised—said her boyfriend got too rough. Then she laughed and said, “He d

POV: MichaelIt was past midnight when the last light in the office flickered out, except for the lamp in my corner suite.The rest of the building had gone still—empty hallways, silent elevators, cleaning crews long gone. But I remained. Alone, surrounded by city lights that shimmered through the vast window behind me, their glow a cruel reminder of how small everything inside me felt.My jacket hung on the back of my chair. The tie lay discarded on the floor. The whiskey bottle—half-full—sat beside the envelope I'd opened hours ago but still couldn’t stop staring at.The paternity results were right there.Undeniable. Unforgiving.Kelvin was my son.And I.. had not been a father.The letter to Emerald, written and mailed, had brought no peace. No sleep. Just more silence. And silence was the one thing I had always feared. It meant the room was empty. It meant no one was coming back.I paced the office now, sleeves rolled up, shirt wrinkled, breath uneven.My mind wouldn’t stop.The

POV: MichaelI hadn’t meant for it to become obsession.But obsession doesn’t always start as fire. Sometimes it grows in the quiet. A look that lingers too long. A headline read twice. The echo of a child’s laugh I heard only once, now playing on loop in my chest like a siren.After the tabloids exploded, Emerald all but vanished from the public eye. No statements. No interviews. No carefully-worded clarifications. She didn’t deny the rumors. She didn’t feed them either.She just... went still.And it drove me mad.My only thread to her now came through press releases and society events. Black-tie charity auctions. Foundation brunches. State-level galas. If she was listed as attending, so was I.I became a ghost at her side—never close enough to speak, never far enough to let go.I didn’t push. Not yet. Not again.I just watched.The first time, it was the Armitage Fundraiser. She arrived late, stunning in ivory silk, Kelvin by her side. Her smile was gracious, but her eyes never sto

POV: MichaelThe private school sat tucked in the hills above the city, more fortress than campus. Clean lines. Discreet gates. Ivy-wrapped walls that whispered wealth without saying it out loud. A place designed to shield children from the world even as it prepared them to rule it.I had never set foot here before.Until today.My name wasn’t listed on the visitor log. My donation had been processed through a blind foundation. The $2.5 million endowment for technology, infrastructure, and arts education had come from an entity the headmaster couldn’t trace back to me—until I arrived and quietly introduced myself in the polished foyer.“I don’t want recognition,” I said. “Just a tour.”The man smiled with rehearsed charm. “Of course, Mr. Michael. We’re honored. Anything in particular you’d like to see?”I hesitated, then said, “The lower basic floor. I’m curious how the youngest pupils learn.”They walked slowly. Clean halls. Happy laughter echoing from behind classroom doors. Display

POV: MichaelIt was the hardest decision I’d made since letting her go.I sat in my attorney’s private conference room, staring at a manila folder with my name typed neatly across the tab. The room was quiet, lined with leather-bound law books and the cold, stale scent of legal process. A far cry from the warmth of Kelvin’s birthday, the smell of cake, or the weight of my son’s hand in mine.I hadn’t wanted this.But after days of silence, after the media storm turned me into a meme, after Emerald didn’t return my calls—after watching myself be rewritten as dangerous, volatile, and unfit—I did what desperate men sometimes do.I sought paper.“I want visitation rights,” I said quietly.My lawyer, James Patel, sat across from me with cautious eyes. “Are you sure?”“No,” I admitted. “But I have to try. I can’t keep hoping for permission.”Patel leaned back. “This will trigger a legal response from Ms. Hugo’s team. And possibly the press, if it leaks. You’re filing against a beloved publ