All Chapters of Dear CEO, I Want a Divorce: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

ANTHONY’S POVI had everything planned for tonight. Something simple, private. Just her and me.A late dinner on the terrace of my penthouse, the skyline lit up in the distance. Her favorite playlist and a candlelit table set by a chef flown in from Italy. Every detail was for her. I didn’t want gifts or speeches. I wanted Elisha.But plans rarely survive my family.My stepmother had other ideas—an entire celebration at Grandad’s country house. Champagne fountains. Ice sculptures. Imported orchids from Thailand. She said it was just a “little gathering,” but I knew better. There’d be hundreds of guests, photographers, catered food, and a full bar. And I had to show up—if only out of respect.My father didn’t care for such parties. He barely cared for birthdays. But Priscilla loved appearances. She always had. Especially now, with Grandad watching everything more closely.So I put on the tux. I combed my hair back. And I drove two hours out of the city just to wave at a crowd of peop

ANTHONY’S POVI stood in front of the mirror, water still dripping down my face. My heart was racing. Not from fear, but something else. My chest felt like it could barely contain the way it pounded. I braced my hands on the edge of the sink, trying to catch my breath. It wasn’t just what happened—it was how easy it felt. Her lips, her hands, the quiet sounds she made that only I got to hear. It had felt real. Grounded. Like maybe we were starting again, for real this time.I leaned on the sink, staring at my reflection. My hair was a mess. My skin was flushed. My lips were still tingling. I looked like a man who’d just won something—something he’d wanted for a long time.She chose to stay. She chose me. The thought alone was enough to make my chest feel tight.I dried my face, smoothed my hair back, tried to calm myself down. I couldn’t afford to mess this up by rushing. I couldn’t scare her away now. We’d just shared something real. Something perfect. I couldn’t bulldoze ahead an

ELISHA’S POVThe next second, I watched the waitress push Zane backward. The crash of glass hit the room like a gunshot.Every head turned.Champagne flutes lay shattered on the floor, their contents seeping into the white linen. Zane stood above the mess, red-faced, his body tense and posture aggressive. She, on the other hand, stood defiantly, almost daring him to make another move. “What the hell are you doing!?” Zane’s voice boomed, rough and furious. It echoed across the marble floors, silencing every conversation. The music stopped. Forks paused mid-air. Eyes stared.I was already moving toward her.“Hey, are you okay?” I asked. “Don’t get involved, Montgomery,” Zane warned, his eyes flashing with an anger i’ve never seen before. I ignored him and focused on the girl. “Did you get hurt?” She looked at me, smiling. “Perfectly fine, Miss.”“You’re fine?” I blinked, thrown off by her calmness.“Yes,” she repeated, smiling too calmly. “I got this, please return to your party.”

ANTHONY’S POVMy birthday party wasn’t really for me.It never was. These things were performative—strategic—gatherings for those who wanted to be seen and those who wanted to see me. The guests cared more about their reflections in the mirrored walls than the man the evening was supposed to be about.Elisha was the only one who ever treated my birthday like an actual birthday. The cake, the picnics, the balloons, the small, intimate, meaningful gifts. A slow voice dragged me back.“Anthony.”“Hello, Dad.” I lifted my glass just slightly, mocking the civility neither of us believed in.“I’d like you to meet someone—”“Dad, please. The divorce papers aren’t even cold yet.”He stepped closer. “A man like you can’t afford to be unmarried for long. The world watches. A family needs assurance. Stability.”I laughed dryly. “Grandad prefers Elisha,” I said, hoping he’d drop the matter. His lips thinned. “My father can be… a romantic.”He said that with venom, not admiration. “In any case,

ELISHA’S POVAs soon as I got home, I went straight to the drawer under my kitchen counter and fished out the card Robert had given me weeks ago. I hadn’t touched it since the day he slipped it into my palm, with one of those rare, brief smiles that made you feel like he believed in you more than you believed in yourself.I read the card. DR. ELIZABETH FISCHER. PRIVATE PEDIATRIC AND NUTRITIONAL CARE. INDEPENDENT CLINIC.That last part mattered most. It meant she wasn’t under Anthony’s payroll. It meant my hours, my lab access, my patient interactions—none of it could be monitored by him. None of it could be threatened. Not by him. Not by anyone.Without another thought, I dialed.A woman’s voice answered on the second ring. Warm. Alert. Calm.“Dr. Fischer speaking.”I introduced myself. Told her who had referred me. Mentioned my background in clinical nutrition and childhood metabolic studies. She asked me two follow-up questions—just two—and then invited me to stop by the clinic t