All Chapters of Dear CEO, I Want a Divorce: Chapter 211 - Chapter 220

OSTARA’S POVI gently untangled Donna’s arms and sat beside her on the bench, the late afternoon sun flickering through the trees above us.“I’ll text Bethany,” I said, reaching into my bag. “She can take you back to the hotel, okay?”Donna nodded obediently, though her little face still carried that lingering sadness from the ward.“Hey,” I said, tipping her chin up lightly, “you don’t have to go in tomorrow if you don’t want to. You can take the day to think about it, see how you’re feeling.”She looked thoughtful, almost too mature for eight years old. “I’ll be okay, I think” she said. “If you’re both with me, I won’t get scared.”Her words settled in the space between us, too honest, too pure to ignore. I felt Anthony’s eyes on me before I looked at him. Our gazes met for the briefest moment — an unspoken exchange of something neither of us was brave enough to define. It was such a simple sentence, but it hit with weight. I didn’t answer. Neither did Anthony. We just… looked at e

PETER’S POVLosing her ruined the plan.I sat behind my desk, the half-empty bottle of whiskey glaring back at me like it knew. The amber light from the lamp cast long shadows across the room — papers, maps, invoices — the wreckage of months spent trying to thread one perfect opportunity together.Ostara Beaumont.She’d been the key.She could have opened doors for me I didn’t even know existed. I had spent months moving my pieces quietly, slowly, until she was finally within reach. And then? Gone. Snatched back into Anthony’s orbit like the universe itself had decided to spit in my face.I pressed my palms flat on the desk, jaw tight. “One goddamn chance,” I muttered. “That’s all I needed.”One chance to make it right — to prove to the mob that I wasn’t selfish, that I wasn’t just another rich man’s mistake playing gangster. One chance to show them I was still one of them.And Enzo blew it. The muscled bufoon. My glass hit the table harder than I meant it to. The sound echoed, shar

OSTARA’S POVThe week flew by faster than I expected.Donna had settled into the rhythm of Anthony’s new home like she’d been born there. She spent her mornings painting in the sunroom, afternoons chasing Mark’s dog through the garden, and evenings curled up beside Anthony, listening to stories she’d already heard a hundred times.It was beautiful to watch.It also made leaving harder.“I’ll miss you, mummy,” she said that morning, her voice small against my shoulder as she hugged me.I kissed her hair. “I’ll miss you too, baby. But I’ll be back soon, alright?”She looked up at me with those wide, honey-brown eyes. “Promise?”“I promise.”Anthony appeared by the doorway, sleeves rolled, still holding the mug of coffee he’d made for me. “Are you sure you can’t stay another week?”I turned to him. “I’ve been away from work long enough. The team needs me.”“Donna would be thrilled.”I smiled faintly. “That’s exactly why I’m leaving now, before she gets used to me being here every day.”H

ANTHONY’S POVThe jet landed at dawn, and by the time the wheels hit the tarmac, my phone was already vibrating with messages from Mark.By the time I reached the car waiting outside, he was already there — coat rumpled, tie loosened, eyes bloodshot. That told me everything I needed to know.“Talk to me,” I said, sliding into the back seat beside him.He didn’t waste a second. “The crate sent to St. Xavier’s last week — the one that carried the new stock of Neurofenex painkillers — turned up with packets of green powder inside. Hidden in the bottle casings.”My head snapped toward him. “How the hell is that even possible?”“We contacted the manufacturer in India and they sent us some pretty solid evidence that it wasn’t them… security cameras, badge numbers, quality assurance reports, all of it. Which means…” “It was comprised after it left India.” “The ship stopped in Augusta to fuel up and pick up other stocks before heading to America. Our quality checks there were also pristine,

ANTHONY’S POVBy noon, the boardroom was already humming with tension.Half the shareholders had flown in overnight, the rest were patched in through video call — faces glowing cold and pale on the screen, eyes sharp, waiting for answers I barely had. The air smelled faintly of coffee and nerves.“Alright,” I began, standing at the head of the table. “I know everyone’s heard some version of what’s happening at St. Xavier’s, but let me be clear — it’s contained. We’re managing it internally until we identify the source.”“Internally?” said Hargrove, one of the older members whose fortune was built on pharmaceuticals before Möller acquired his company. “Anthony, contamination is a criminal matter, not an internal one.”“It’s not contamination,” I said. “It’s deliberate tampering. There’s a difference.”Another voice chimed in from the far end of the table — Evans, sharp suit, sharper tongue. “You can’t know that for certain.”“I do,” I said evenly. “The products left the factories clean