Lahat ng Kabanata ng Dear CEO, I Want a Divorce: Kabanata 151 - Kabanata 160

ANTHONY’S POVThe van’s horn ripped the air apart.I didn’t think. My body surged forward, boots slamming against wet asphalt, my coat snapping around me like a sail. The headlights carved into my vision—bright, merciless—but all I saw was the small shape of the girl in pink.She was seconds from being hit.I reached her just as the van barreled past. My arms closed around her tiny frame, yanking her backward so hard that my shoulder wrenched with the motion. The weight of her was feather-light against me, but the force of saving her felt like lifting the world.The curb bit into my side as I twisted us out of the lane, landing rough. The van sped on, the driver either oblivious or unwilling to stop. A chorus of shouts went up from the people nearby. The air reeked of exhaust, rubber, and rain.The girl buried her face against my collar, trembling violently. My heart pounded against her cheek.We were alive.I wrapped her closer, shielding her, only now daring to look at her properly.

ANTHONY’S POVI walked the whole way home in a daze.London passed in fragments—the buzz of neon over a takeaway, the hiss of buses slowing to their stops, the faint thrum of music bleeding out of a pub door. None of it landed. None of it mattered. My body moved on muscle memory, but my head was still on that street corner, still on the moment she’d torn Donna out of my arms and told me a lie so clean it almost convinced me.Almost.Donna was mine. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name.I had held her. Felt her weight, her pulse against me, the shape of her laughter just before it broke into a wheeze. I had steadied her breathing, coaxed her back to calm, watched her rally herself like a fighter no taller than my knee.She was Elisha’s child—and mine.Elisha’s nose, Elisha’s eyes.Her wit. Her precision.What five-year-old could tell where chocolate beans were sourced from? Ghana smoother than other profiles, she’d said, like she was reciting her multiplication tables. That wasn’

OSTARA’S POVI had been awake most of the night.Donna’s small hand curled into mine long after she fell asleep, her chest finally rising and falling evenly, her little inhaler sitting like a guard on the nightstand. I stayed awake anyway. I kept seeing the curb. Her pink coat.And Anthony.Him kneeling on the wet asphalt, voice steady, talking to her like she was a delicate little thing. There had been no calculation in him, no leverage waiting to be used. Just focus. Just calm.Just… reliability.That was the part that stayed with me.By morning, I felt hollowed out. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked polished, professional—hair pinned, jacket sharp, makeup neat. But underneath, I was still shaky. My body carried the echo of adrenaline, even as I walked into the office and let the weight of Harvest Bloom wrap itself around me again.Emails stacked, production schedules waiting, suppliers calling. The fire in Germany had already made its way through the trade publications.

ANTHONY’S POVHer email saved me.It didn’t just change the course of the week, or the month—it pulled me back from the edge of an abyss I hadn’t even admitted I was standing on. I had been ready to lay it all down, to hand Peter the victory, to call the last six years nothing more than wasted obsession.And then—her name in my inbox.Ostara.The subject line was nothing remarkable. The text was concise, deliberate, free of flourish. But every word of it was oxygen.Harvest Bloom will be moving forward with Zenith for our American distribution.I’d read it a dozen times before I let myself breathe. I’d laughed aloud, a sound so unsteady that Mark had looked up from across the plane with something close to alarm. I’d been on the verge of collapse, and with one message, she’d pulled me upright again.I couldn’t believe how close I’d been to surrender. The thought made me angry at myself, made me want to slam a fist into a wall. To give up—when I’d carried this torch through fire, thro

OSTARA’S POVThe museum’s glass façade caught the last few rays of light as the sun set. London nights began early in the winters and the cold was unforgiving. But inside the wide entrance doors, it was warm. The lobby was all wood, stone, and leather—more like an old manor than a modern museum.Cameron was waiting for me just past the ticket desk, a slim guidebook in one hand, his other tucked casually in his coat pocket. London suited him. Or maybe he knew how to fit into any space he was given. He had been nothing but lovely, kind, and available the last few weeks we’d been seeing each other. His natural ease, however, did nothing to untie the knots in my stomach—no amount of coffee or late-night notes or rationalization could do it.“Ready?” he asked, smiling, offering me the guide as though I might want to mark our route.“Lead the way,” I said. My voice sounded calm enough, though the thrum in my veins didn’t match it.We began in the sculpture hall. Marble figures stood in the