The Billionaire's Regret; Now He Desperately Wants Her Back. のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

POV: Emerald I knew something was going on the moment I walked in and smelled burnt marshmallows.Kelvin was standing on a stool in the kitchen, poking at a tray of suspiciously lumpy s’mores while humming a made-up song about dinosaurs and weddings. He grinned when he saw me.“Don’t come in yet!” he squeaked, arms flailing like a traffic cop. “It’s a surprise!”I raised an eyebrow. “Why does the surprise smell like campfire regret?”He giggled and waved his marshmallow stick like a wand. “Go sit in the backyard! Someone will come get you!”Before I could ask another question, he pushed me out with sticky fingers and shut the back door behind me.So I waited.In the golden hush of early evening, barefoot on the grass, the breeze dancing through the trees. I sat on the wooden bench Michael had repaired last spring. The air smelled like lavender and something sweet.A few minutes later, the door creaked open.Michael stepped out, a little too formal for the hour. Crisp white shirt. No

POV: Emerald It wasn’t a grand celebration. No balloons. No Instagram-worthy decor.Just us.And pizza.Kelvin had insisted on it the second he saw Michael and me holding hands outside. We’d barely made it through the doorway before he jumped up from the couch and blurted, “We need a party!”I laughed so hard I almost dropped the bag of groceries.“Pizza, cookies, juice boxes, and the good paper plates!” he said, buzzing like a soda can that had been shaken too long.Michael knelt down and ruffled his hair. “What’s the occasion?”Kelvin’s eyes sparkled. “You and Mommy are a ‘together’ now, right?”Michael glanced at me.I nodded.“Yeah,” Michael said softly. “We’re a ‘together.’”Kelvin beamed so brightly I swear the apartment glowed for a second.“Then it’s a celebration,” he declared, grabbing a crayon and sketching a lopsided heart with all three of our names inside. “No more ‘maybe.’ Now it’s yes.”—An hour later, we were camped out on the living room floor. The coffee table was

POV: Emerald It arrived early.Before the sun had fully crested the skyline, before Ursula barged in with her caffeine-fueled battle plan, before the hairstylist rolled in her equipment like a military-grade arsenal of curling wands and floral pins.A delivery box.Wrapped in understated white, tied with a slate-gray ribbon that reminded me of rain.No sender listed.Just my name.Inside the envelope taped to the lid was a card. Clean handwriting.Emerald,This is not a goodbye.This is just me, from a safe distance, rooting for your joy.With peace and pride——Matthew.My chest fluttered, then stilled.I set the card down gently, reverently, like something fragile, and opened the box.Inside, nestled in soft linen, was a gift I never would’ve expected.A snow globe.Inside the glass: a miniature of the old bookstore in Paris we once wandered into during a business trip. The one with creaky floorboards and handwritten notes in all the paperbacks.I lifted it slowly, shook it once.Fl

POV: Emerald The celebration carried on behind us—music, laughter, clinking glasses, the sound of heels against marble and the occasional roar of Kelvin’s giggle as he danced like the floor belonged to him.But we slipped away.Michael and I.Through the side doors of the conservatory, past the hedges where the roses were just beginning to close for the night, and into the garden lit by nothing but moonlight and strings of soft, amber bulbs.I kicked off my heels halfway down the stone path.He reached for my hand without a word.And we walked until the music felt like a dream in another room.There was a bench beneath the big elm tree—our tree. The one we’d sat beneath when we toured the venue months ago and knew, somehow, it would hold a part of our story.He sat first. I curled beside him, knees tucked, my head on his shoulder.The stars were everywhere.And for a moment, we just breathed.No speeches.No vows.No eyes on us.Just stillness.“I didn’t think I’d make it here,” I sa

POV: Emerald It came in a plain white envelope.No return address.Just my name, written in a hand I hadn’t seen in years—angular, careful, familiar in the way something poisonous becomes when you’ve survived it.I didn’t open it at first.I placed it on my desk, beside my planner and the vase of peonies Michael brought me from the market. For three days, I let it sit there. I’d glance at it sometimes, in between meetings or on my way to bed, and each time I’d think: Not today.Until one morning, when the city was still soft with fog, and the house was quiet except for the hum of the espresso machine, I picked it up.I carried it to the balcony.I sat.And I opened it.—Emerald,I know I am the last person you ever expected—or wanted—to hear from. And that’s why I waited. Until the noise quieted. Until the headlines changed. Until your peace had room to breathe.But I write now because truth, even late, is still a kind of debt we owe.I was cruel to you.At first, it was jealousy. N