Semua Bab The Billionaire's Regret; Now He Desperately Wants Her Back.: Bab 51 - Bab 60

POV: EmeraldSix months.That’s how long it had been since I whispered to Matthew that I wanted to try. Since I let my heart step cautiously toward something warm. Since I told myself it was okay to stop surviving long enough to feel safe again.And with Matthew, safe was easy.We fell into a rhythm the way some people fall into silence—not awkwardly, but comfortably. Saturdays were ours. We’d wake up late, eat pancakes in our pajamas, and take Kelvin shopping. Matthew always let him sneak one sugary snack into the cart, even when I said no. They had a running joke about hiding cookies under lettuce—Kelvin’s idea of camouflage.We laughed more. At the market, in the car, at home. There were inside jokes. Shared playlists. A quiet competition of who could steal the last cookie from the jar. Kelvin always caught us in the act and declared himself the true winner.He held my hand in public like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d kiss my forehead when I was mid-call, or whis

POV: EmeraldThe gala was too loud.It wasn’t the music—it was everything else.The walls glittered like they were trying too hard to hide cracks. The chandeliers above sparkled like they were mocking us—like they knew how much was fake in this room. Laughter clinked through the air like broken glass, sharp and hollow. Crystal flutes collided gently in toasts I didn’t care about. A symphony of elegance—laced with exhaustion.It echoed inside my chest like an empty hallway.Matthew stood beside me with the same practiced calm he always wore like armor. Every movement of his body was curated. Precision elegance. Smile tight. Shoulders squared. Posture confident. He looked like he belonged here—black tailored suit hugging him just right, tie loosened enough to be charming, not careless.He said all the right things to all the right people. Laughed when he should. Nodded at names I barely remembered. He touched my lower back every time I seemed distracted, like he was pulling me back to r

POV: MichaelI didn’t belong there.Not really.Not among the polished elites and the perfume-thick air, not beneath chandeliers shaped like fallen stars or beside men whose smiles cost more than most people made in a year. I didn’t speak their language—the dialect of wealth, subtle power, rehearsed laughter.But I came anyway.I wasn’t invited to the head table. Didn’t want to be. I stayed in the back, a shadow among tailored suits, sipping flat water from a glass I barely touched. I was just another face. Just another story no one asked to hear.But I didn’t come for them.I came for her.Emerald.And tonight?She looked like something the universe had crafted in its quietest hour.The champagne-colored gown clung to her like silk whispered in reverence. Not loud. Not seeking attention. Just existing in the kind of stillness that demanded it anyway. Her hair fell in soft waves that danced each time she turned. Every part of her glowed like a secret the night couldn’t keep.She didn’

POV: MichaelThere’s a silence in courtrooms that doesn’t exist anywhere else.It’s not peace.It’s pressure.The air tightens around you like a vice, waiting for the crack. Every breath is borrowed. Every sound feels like a threat. Even the judge’s voice—calm, deliberate—feels more like a countdown than control.I sat in the second row.No cameras today. The judge had ordered a closed courtroom for the sentencing. Only attorneys, victims, and a few direct family members were allowed inside.I hadn’t planned on being there.But when I heard Emerald would attend, I knew I had to. Not for Vivian. For closure.For consequence.Vivian sat two tables away. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, her suit beige and forgettable. Her eyes flickered from her hands to the door to the floor. Never once did they find mine.She looked... empty.But I knew better.Vivian had always been full of one thing: calculation.And when calculation fails, what’s left?Panic.The prosecutor’s summary was clear.

POV: EmeraldI hadn’t touched the journal in months.It sat on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, tucked behind a stack of business manuals and glossy magazines. A part of me thought leaving it untouched meant I’d outgrown it. That I didn’t need a safe place to pour what I couldn’t say out loud.But tonight, something pulled me back.Not pain.Not longing.Just... stillness.The house was quiet. Kelvin had finally drifted off after telling me a wildly elaborate bedtime story involving Sir Roars-a-Lot, a time machine, and a sandwich war in space. I’d kissed his forehead and whispered goodnight, then lingered a little longer at his door, watching him breathe like it was the only sound that mattered.Downstairs, the city lights flickered through the windows. I poured tea I wouldn’t finish and carried the journal to the couch.It was worn now. The leather cover had dulled. The elastic band stretched too thin. But it still opened like an old friend—no judgment, no rules.Just room.I picked