Semua Bab The Billionaire's Regret; Now He Desperately Wants Her Back.: Bab 31 - Bab 40

Chapter 32POV: Emerald The first thing I noticed was the color.Bright. Unapologetic. Sunbursts of yellow and soft blue skies streaked across the paper like hope had taken shape in a child's crayon-stained fingers.I stood at the kitchen counter, my tea growing cold in my hands, while Kelvin shyly held out the drawing he’d brought home from art class. It was slightly wrinkled at the corners, the bottom edge torn just a bit—as if he’d held it too tightly on the way home, afraid it might slip from his grasp.“I made this,” he said, proud and small. “For you.”I set the mug down. “Let me see, baby.”I knelt beside him.And the second my eyes took in the page, my breath caught.It was us.Four stick figures beneath a big, messy sun. Crayoned grass and little scribbled clouds. The handwriting along the top in Kelvin’s uneven print read: “MY FAMILY.”I stared.On the far left was Kelvin himself, unmistakable with the blue baseball cap he always insisted on wearing backward. A wide, curved

POV: Emerald It began with a single headline. THE MICHAELSON FILES: HOW ONE WOMAN CLOAKED POWER IN CORRUPTION. Bylines across every major publication carried Charlotte Avery’s name. No longer buried. No longer afraid. Her voice rang with clarity, backed by receipts, timestamps, names, and facts. The kind of facts no legal team could redact, no campaign could drown. I read it at my desk as the city beyond the glass woke up unaware that everything had just changed. Vivian Michaelson empire of secrets had been detonated—by evidence, by testimony, by the woman she’d tried to silence, and by the one she’d underestimated the most. Me. I read slowly, methodically. It was all there: —The bribes. —The falsified property reports in Australia. —The rigged land auctions. —The falsified charitable donations funneled through shell accounts. —The security footage of the cash envelope. —The ghost contracts signed under her name while others bled for her mistakes. Charlotte

POV: MichaelThe sun hadn’t risen yet when the knock came.I was seated on the edge of bed, dressed in yesterday’s shirt, tie undone, phone clenched in my hand. I hadn’t slept. Not since the evening news aired grainy footage of Vivian storming out of her townhouse, flanked by lawyers, looking more like a cornered animal than a socialite.The scandal had hit every network. The audio recordings. The forged documents. The bribes. The sham charities. The collapsing mask of perfection.But what haunted me most was the way she looked in the last known photo—lips parted in shock, eyeliner smudged, coat half-buttoned like she hadn’t planned to leave at all.I opened the door to find Reid. Not Emerald’s Reid—my own former security liaison. The one Vivian used to hate.“She’s gone,” Reid said.My heart stopped. “What?”“She didn’t show for the final court prep. GPS trackers on her vehicle were disabled. Her lawyer says she missed two calls. Her phone's off. No one’s seen her in ten hours.”I sw

POV: VivianThe wig itched. The glasses pinched my nose. The trench coat hung too heavy around my shoulders.I barely recognized myself in the mirror of the dingy motel bathroom. Gone were the sculpted cheekbones lit by spotlight, the high-gloss red lips, the silk scarves and diamond brooches. What stared back at me now was a ghost—a woman stitched together by cheap fabric and trembling purpose.I tucked my dark-blonde wig tighter under my hood. Checked the burner phone. No new messages.They thought I was overseas.Gone.But I had never left.I'd stayed in the shadows of the city that once adored me, slipping through hostels, abandoned rentals, and late-night buses. And now, I was ready.It wasn’t revenge.It was reclamation.They had taken everything. My name. My place. My boy.Kelvin.My stepson. My mirror to a life I had tried to control and lost. My last thread to Michael—and to power.If I could just get him back, just for a moment, I could remind the world who Vivian Michaelso

POV: Emerald The paperwork was stacked three inches thick on the polished walnut desk in my office. Dozens of affidavits. Surveillance stills. Forensic audits. Depositions. All neatly tabbed, labeled, and ready to launch.This wasn’t an emotional move.It was strategic.This wasn’t rage.This was control.Vivian Michaelson had gone too far for far too long. The kidnapping attempt had shattered any illusion of civility. The years of manipulation, lies, leaked stories, whisper campaigns, and shadow sabotage had only ever been whispers in the dark.Not anymore.I was making it official: Vivian would be held accountable—legally, financially, and publicly.“Are we clear on all jurisdictions?” I asked.Marissa, my lead legal counsel, nodded. “Defamation in New York, international civil liability in Australia tied to the property shell game, and breach of non-compete plus cyber interference via her offshore shell company.”“And the civil suit for property damages?”“Filed under joint claims