Semua Bab The Billionaire's Regret; Now He Desperately Wants Her Back.: Bab 41 - Bab 50

POV: EmeraldI left my phone on the kitchen counter.Face down. Silent. Uncharged.I didn’t tell Reid. Didn’t warn Marissa. Didn’t check in with Michael or Matthew. Not even Kelvin knew the full plan, and that was the hardest part. Walking away without cradling my son’s face in my palms and whispering goodbye. But I couldn’t trust myself to leave if I saw his eyes.I left behind a single note.Scrawled in my familiar script. Folded neatly. Tucked under the vase of white lilies in the entryway—ones I used to replace every Monday like ritual."I need a pause. I’m okay. Don’t come looking.”Then I disappeared.It wasn’t spontaneous. Not the impulsive flight of a woman unraveling—but the deliberate, whispered rebellion of someone who had been unraveling for far too long. Weeks in the making. Months, if I’m honest. Years if I dig deep enough.A driver picked me up at 5 a.m. sharp. He said nothing, just held up a sign with my name—Emerald. Not Ms. Hugo. No boardroom formality. No fame. No f

POV: MatthewIt was raining in Boston when I got in.Not the kind of dramatic storm you see in movies—but that quiet, steady drizzle that turns the sky to slate and makes everything seem softer, slower, sadder. The city looked like it had pressed pause. Raindrops streaked across the car window like tears that weren’t mine but felt like they could’ve been.The driver slowed at the curb outside the old brownstone. He leaned over the seat and asked if I wanted him to wait. I shook my head gently. “No. I need the walk.”It was only a few steps, but I wanted to feel the pavement under my shoes. The rain on my coat. Something real. Something grounding. My breaths came shallow, and I realized I hadn’t taken a full one in hours.The house hadn’t changed much.Same blue shutters, faded now with time. The same ivy trailing up one side like nature refusing to be ignored. The brass lion’s head knocker glistened from the drizzle, just as proud and gleaming as it had been when I was eight and afrai

POV: Emerald Hospitals always smelled the same—too clean, too cold, too quiet. No matter the wing, the time, the country. They all carried that same clinical sterility meant to erase emotion. But it never worked. Not for me.I walked through the corridor alone this time. Kelvin was with Marissa, home and settled after his first visit. He had hugged Michael so tightly that it made my chest ache. Then he looked at me and whispered, “You can stay a little longer.”So I was here.Alone.The elevator ride to Michael’s floor was silent, but my mind screamed. With every second, my resolve wavered. I hadn’t planned to stay more than five minutes. Maybe just check in. Maybe just say thank you for not dying. And leave.But part of me had known this would be more.Room 617.Same sterile door. Same soft beep from the monitor behind it. I stood outside for too long, hand poised to knock, then letting it fall, then poised again. Finally, I pushed it open without warning.Michael was sitting up thi

POV: Michael The lights were too bright, even though the room was dim.Across from me sat the journalist—someone I trusted, someone who wasn’t interested in scandal but in truth. A recording mic sat between us on the table, blinking its little red eye. The cameras were already rolling. There was no script. No publicist. No safe word.Just me.And a promise I made to myself:To finally say everything I never had the courage to say.The journalist nodded gently. “You’re sure you want to begin with this?”“Yes,” I said. “If I’m going to speak, I have to start at the beginning. My beginning. Not hers.”He leaned in slightly. “Alright, Michael. When did you first realize you were wrong about Emerald?”I took a deep breath.“The day I watched her bleed in silence.”I let the words hang.“I didn’t see it in the moment. I saw her fall, I saw the blood, I heard the guards move her, and I told myself it was necessary. I told myself she’d understand, eventually. That she’d be fine. Because I ha

POV: EmeraldThe pressure was unspoken—but constant. Like air, it wrapped itself around me, invisible yet undeniable. It was in the way eyes lingered on me too long during meetings. In the hesitations before people spoke my name, like they were uncertain which version of me they’d get. And in every visit, every well-meaning call from a friend, every “Just checking in” that came laced with a silent follow-up:Have you chosen yet?They never said it directly. They wouldn’t dare. But I felt it in the way their voices softened when they asked how I was doing. I felt it in the loaded glances passed like hush money between the people closest to me.And the honest answer was—I hadn’t.Not because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to.But every time I leaned toward a decision, something inside me seized—like muscle memory pulling me back into the shadows I thought I had left behind. Sometimes it was a scent. A place. A phrase. Other times, it was a scar—healed over, but still tender.This wasn’