All Chapters of The Billionaire's Regret; Now He Desperately Wants Her Back.: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

POV: Emerald The rain had softened by afternoon, but the sky still hung low and gray over the city. I watched the droplets gather on the window of my study, each one slipping down the glass like a quiet question.Kelvin was on the floor behind me, carefully piecing together a solar system puzzle he’d been working on all week. He had already put Jupiter in the wrong spot twice but refused to give up.He always tried again.Like his father.I turned back to the window, my heart aching a little at the thought.Then came his voice.“Mom?”I turned. “Yes, love?”He didn’t look up.He pressed Saturn into place and said, almost absently, “Is Mr. Michael my dad?”The room went still.My breath caught in my chest, but I kept my face calm. I walked over and sat cross-legged beside him on the rug, careful not to touch the puzzle.“Why do you ask that?”He finally looked up at me. Big brown eyes. Gentle and thoughtful.“I’ve seen him a lot lately. At school. At my birthday. He talks to you like

POV: Emerald It began as a whisper online.A grainy, thirty-second clip uploaded to a gossip blog at 2 a.m., no watermark, no source. By sunrise, it had over two million views.I didn’t know it existed until I walked into my office and found my assistant, Hilda, hovering by my desk with a tablet in both hands and a look that said something just exploded.“You should see this,” Hilda said quietly.I took the tablet and pressed play.I knew the courtroom angle immediately—low, discreet, not one of the official feeds. Likely smuggled from a reporter’s phone, slipped past security. The footage was shaky, but the sound was clear.Michael, on the witness stand.Mid-testimony.Voice rough with restraint.“I know I failed him. I failed her. But I wake up every day wondering if there’s still a way back—not to what we had, but to who I should’ve been. And I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking for the right to try.”He stopped then. Shoulders tensed. Mouth trembling.And then—he wept.Not

POV: Emerald The lights were warm but not blinding. The studio was intentionally intimate—no cameras shoved in my face, no flashy backdrops. Just a soft velvet chair, a circular rug, and a woman across from me with eyes trained like a sniper’s, cloaked in a smile.I had chosen this outlet myself. No tabloids. No corporate-friendly fluff pieces. Just The Conversation, a long-form interview show known for its candor and reach. I hadn’t sat down for an interview in three years. But now, with public perception shifting and threats tightening their noose, it was time.Time to take control of the story.The host, Camille DuRose, had built a career on making powerful people cry.I didn’t intend to give her that satisfaction.But I would give her truth.As the camera light turned red, Camille gave the intro.“Today, we’re joined by Emerald Hugo—business magnate, creative director of Imperial Holdings, and a figure the world seems to either admire or dissect depending on the headline. But tod

POV: Emerald The Continental Business Summit had never been my favorite event. Too polished. Too rehearsed. Every handshake was a transaction, every panel a power play in disguise. But I attended because presence was power—and mine always drew a spotlight.This year, however, the energy was different.Not because of me.Because of him.Michael MichaelsonHis name had hovered like a ghost on the speaker list for weeks, but his topic—"Legacy in the Age of Accountability"—was only confirmed hours before the summit began. I knew what the headlines would say before he even took the stage.And I came anyway.Not to watch him.To watch what he chose to become.I sat near the front, expression neutral, frame composed. Every camera in the room would catch me if he so much as mentioned my name.He stepped onstage in a dark gray suit, no tie. Just clean lines and a tension in his shoulders that only I would notice.The moderator introduced him with the usual flair.But Michael didn’t stand behi

POV: Emerald I noticed it in the smallest moments first.The way he now spoke to people without rushing. How he paused to truly listen, not just wait for his turn to speak. His posture, once all calculated dominance and polished pride, had softened—not slouched, but grounded. Human.Michael had really changed.And the most surprising part? It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for me. It was for himself.I had learned long ago that change meant nothing unless it held when no one was watching. But lately, I had seen him when he thought no one was watching.Like the day he bent down to tie Kelvin’s sneaker at a public event, even as photographers snapped photos at a distance. He hadn’t looked up once. He’d only looked at his son.“Don’t trip, champ. We can’t have your art outshining your running skills.”I had watched from behind the tinted car window. It wasn’t performative. It was patient. Gentle.Or the time a junior staffer at a joint charity benefit spilled coffee across a shipment