All Chapters of Dear CEO, I Want a Divorce: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

NATALIE’S POVThe breakroom, for once, did not have chattering old birds sharing gossip like it was the last crumb in the jungle.Silence.Not serene. Not peaceful. Just... still. Like something had died in there.I stood by the window, stirring my coffee with the kind of dramatic indifference that only comes from being snubbed. The park behind the Möller Industries office shimmered under an overcast sky, gray clouds hanging low like judgment. A woman jogged along the gravel path, ponytail bouncing in rhythm, earbuds tucked in. Free. Focused.Unlike me.I tapped the side of my cup, watching the foam settle. “Why did he throw me out?” I muttered under my breath.New companies don’t break into the market by playing it safe. They need angles. Maneuvers. People willing to stretch boundaries, not just color inside the lines.I was the person willing to get my hands dirty. Break the rules. Be cunning. And Anthony had stuck me in Public Relations.The softest, fluffiest corner of the build

OSTARA’S POV“Go on, open it. I want to laugh!”Davina was already halfway doubled over on the sofa, grinning at me like I was about to show her a leaked royal scandal.I shook my head. “I don’t want to. It was awful. I deserve better.”We were in my office above the Harvest Bloom labs—a calm, curated space of glass, pale wood, and polished marble. Donna had just fallen asleep on the small sofa in the corner, wrapped in her cartoon-print blanket, blissfully unaware her mother was wheezing over someone else’s corporate disaster.I turned the tablet screen toward Davina one more time, flashing her the deck from Zenith.The first one.She shrieked again. “Oh my God, this font! Who uses this? Why is there a quote from Oprah next to a stock image of a Hershey’s bar?”“She’s not wrong,” I said, laughing despite myself.Davina clapped her hand over her mouth. “Ostara. I swear. I wish Donna were old enough to understand why this is so funny. I want to pass this down.”I tilted my head. “It’s

ANTHONY’S POVIt had been almost a month.Enough time to prepare the real pitch. Not the one that had gone out prematurely—the butchered draft that never should’ve left our servers. This one was tighter. Leaner. Every slide exactly where it needed to be. No fluff. No noise.Zenith was ready.The Harvest Bloom file sat open on my desk. Their supply chain map. Their tiered pricing strategy. Their retail footprint in Switzerland and Austria. Every move they made was small, deliberate, airtight. No expansion just for the sake of it.Looking at them, I knew they weren’t chasing numbers, because they didn’t need to at this point. It was all about curating and preserving their identity. Which meant I had to be more than persuasive. I had to be undeniable.Mark stood by the desk, tablet in hand. He was walking me through the final logistics of our London trip, the schedule fine-tuned to the hour. Accommodations, drivers, meeting prep. All accounted for.He paused mid-sentence. “Still no upda

OSTARA’S POVTime passed quickly once the decision was final.We moved on from Zenith. Once I told them we wouldn’t be expanding for a year, they stepped back, but I knew they’d be back. In exactly 365 days. Harvest Bloom grew in the meantime. Faster than expected.The new Valencia line sold out before it officially launched. Pre-orders for the winter truffle series had to be capped at forty percent. Our kitchen team added two new shifts. Packaging had to be restructured for scaled operations, which Davina handled with her usual mix of menace and brilliance.We started onboarding corporate partnerships—selective, curated—just the way I wanted. High-end hotels. First-class airport lounges. A luxury rail line that insisted on naming their dessert cart Le Bloom.I didn’t travel for the meetings anymore. I didn’t need to. People came to us now. They asked politely. They waited their turn.I should have felt like I’d won.But I kept thinking about Peter Banducci.Not obsessively. Not ev

OSTARA’S POVThe office wasn’t loud anymore. That used to bother me, back when we were still climbing—when silence meant hesitation, or worse, failure. But these days, it was different. Quiet didn’t mean fragile. It meant rhythm. Like everything knew what it was doing.Even the light through the windows felt... lived in. My desk, for once, was clean instead of being a war of sticky notes, moodboards, and markers. Just a single espresso cup. One folded napkin that used to have a chocolate croissant. I sat down, exhaled, and opened my laptop. My inbox loaded, slow for a beat, then settled.And there it was.From: Zenith ImportsSubject: Following Up – As AgreedTwelve months. Right on the dot.I remembered telling them we would expand after a year, and this wasn’t a refusal, just a minor delay. Well… now it was a refusal. Zenith, I knew now, wasn’t some elegant, upstart import company. It was Anthony, hiding behind one of his dozen puppet ventures. A man incapable of taking “no” as