Semua Bab Dear CEO, I Want a Divorce: Bab 101 - Bab 110

ELISHA’S POVThe notifications hadn’t stopped buzzing since sunrise.Every social platform, every tag, every inbox mention was alight with the launch of our newest Harvest Bloom flavor—Cayenne Blossom—a bold combination of bitter cacao, rose petal syrup, and a touch of slow-burning heat. An unapologetic flavor. A risk. Something I had fought tooth and nail to perfect.I sat hunched at my desk on the second floor of our main R&D lab, skimming through comments on our official launch video, heart thudding with every refresh.“What even is this flavor supposed to be?”“It’s weird but addictive.”“Never tasted anything like it—genius or deranged, I can’t tell.”I grinned. That’s exactly the kind of reaction I wanted.A balloon string floated into my periphery. Then another. Then—“Surprise!” came Davina’s unmistakable voice, her arms full of glittery helium balloons shaped like cartoon strawberries and planets. Ethan trailed behind her, grinning widely with a gift bag hanging from one hand

ANTHONY’S POVWhy didn’t Harvest Bloom, an insanely successful chocolate company, have a listed CEO or founder?I stared at the homepage on my tablet again. The website was clean, elegant, borderline smug in its minimalism. The “About Us” section was filled with statements about sustainable cocoa and ethical development, but nowhere did it say who was actually behind the damn thing. No board. No founder’s story. No glossy headshots. Just an email form and a faceless “Team.”And who the hell was Beaumont? Why did every inch of my gut insist that Elisha had something to do with it?It was laughable how little proof we had. Some nights, I’d stare at the ceiling, wondering if this was a waste of time. If Davina really just moved for a better opportunity, and I was giving it too much weight.I raised my glass to my lips. The expensive old scotch did nothing to lower my anxiety. Mark stood near the fireplace with his arms crossed. “We’re still running checks on the corporate registry, b

ELISHA’S POV“Do they know who I am?” I asked Elijah, pulling my coat tighter as the driver held the door open.“They know who we want them to know,” he said, climbing in beside me. “Their job isn’t to question—it’s to protect.”I wasn’t sure if that was comforting or chilling. But then again, most things in my life had started falling into that exact category—necessary but cold. Like security cameras in Donna’s playroom. Or the team of accountants who handled Harvest Bloom’s offshore divisions. Or now… this.The penthouse suite overlooked central London, glass windows curving into the sky. The room was polished, sterile, sunlit. Two women in tailored suits waited by the conference table. One older, one younger. A man in dark frames stood in the corner, typing rapidly into a tablet.“Miss… Beaumont?” the elder woman asked, standing. She didn’t offer a handshake. Just a thin-lipped smile.I nodded.“Welcome. Shall we?”No pleasantries. No curiosity. No warmth. Just brutal efficiency.

ANTHONY’S POVThe logs in the fireplace hissed and cracked, throwing golden light across the old stone of my grandfather’s study. Beyond the glass walls, darkness spread across the countryside. Just acres of untouched green, cloaked in navy blue night. The silence here wasn’t just peaceful—it was thick, unshakable. The kind that made you feel like time had stopped.I poured us each a scotch. Neat. Always neat. No ice, no garnish. He raised his glass and gave a tired but amused look as we clinked.“You know, I didn’t build Möller Enterprises to become the arena for some idiotic pissing contest,” he said. “I built it so people who were dying could access tech that actually worked. Efficiently. Affordably. And with integrity.”“I know,” I said quietly.He looked out the window, into the night. “Your father never understood that. The obsession with legacy turned him into a businessman, not a builder.”I let his words hang. He rarely gave speeches. Rarely lectured. But when he did, it wa

OSTARA’S POVIt had been a good day. The kind where nothing spectacular happened—just the rhythm of things running smoothly.The lab team had finalized the Valentine’s Day truffle packaging, Davina’s experimental blend was scoring well with focus groups, and our distributors in Germany had just secured a new storefront display in Frankfurt. Even the printer that never worked seemed to be behaving itself.I was sitting in the upstairs conference nook—what I lovingly called the “nest”—overlooking the workshop below. The lab’s quiet hum reached me in soft waves: machines whirring, the occasional hiss of a tempering drum, the rustle of gloves being discarded. Controlled, deliberate. Like a ballet choreographed in stainless steel.Tracy tapped lightly on the open glass wall.“Sorry to interrupt.”I looked up from my laptop and gestured for her to come in. “Please do. I’ve been rereading the same sentence for ten minutes.”She smiled as she walked in, her heels soft against the carpet. “Ju