All Chapters of The EX-Wife Returns : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The prison gates groaned open, the hinges shrieking like they resented her freedom.Rain fell in thin, icy knives, soaking into the cracked concrete and her paper-thin prison shoes. Five years locked away, and the world still felt colder on the outside.A sleek black car idled just beyond the gate, its headlights cutting through the fog like judgment etched into her skin.Calla stopped. Her breath misted in the damp air.Why was he here?The car door opened with mechanical precision.Damien Calloway stepped out, holding an umbrella like it was a crown and he was still the king of her world.He looked the same—cold, sharp, terrifyingly put-together.The man who had once taken her in, kissed her like she was his last breath... and then left her to rot.Five years without a word. No letters. No visits. No apologies.And now here he was, looking at her like she was a meeting he forgot to cancel.He walked toward her, every step measured and deliberate, like he was entering a courtroom, no

Calla stared out through the rain-streaked window as the car pulled away from the mansion, a sinking feeling settling in her chest. She had a hunch this wouldn’t be the last time she saw Killian.She didn’t know where she was headed.Almost on instinct, she told the driver to take her to her old neighborhood.When the car finally stopped and she stepped out, Calla came to an abrupt halt.Her house — her house — was gone.In its place stood a shiny new building, a brightly painted shop with large windows and a tacky banner stretched across the front.No trace remained of the small, worn house that had once been her entire world.Five years away had been enough for the world to move on.No trace of Calla Calloway.No trace of home.Now she was an ex-convict. The orphan who had married a billionaire, then supposedly betrayed him, and paid for those sins behind bars.She had no one.No family.No friends.No future.No one cared that Calla Calloway had finally walked out of prison.She wa

Calla stood frozen in the study long after Killian’s footsteps had disappeared down the hall. You belong to me now. The words echoed relentlessly in her mind, anger and panic colliding like a storm inside her chest. He had no right. No one did. Did they never learn? Who did he think he was, claiming ownership over her like a prize? Her eyes dropped to the folder still lying open on the polished desk, its contents a mystery she wasn’t ready to face yet. She took a slow, measured step back. The house, which had felt like a palace when she arrived, now felt more like a gilded cage—beautiful on the outside, but cold and suffocating within. The bastard. To hell with his so-called protection. Her bare feet barely made a sound on the cold marble floor as she stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Her heart thundered painfully in her ears, loud enough to drown out every other sound. She didn’t know the layout of this sprawling mansion, but she would find the exit. She had to. The first

The next morning, Damien stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks as Selene was behind him, helping him with his tie. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, but there was a tightness to her touch, an urgency she didn’t bother to hide. “We actually need to do something about Calla,” she murmured, eyes locked on the knot she was tightening. Damien gave a short sigh, resting his hands on her hips. “I told you, I’ll handle it.” “You said that last week,” she said, her voice sharp around the edges. “And the week before that.” “I mean it this time, and I remember saying it last night. He met her gaze in the mirror, his voice firmer now. “I’ve got it under control.” Selene offered a tight smile and leaned in to kiss his cheek, but her silence screamed louder than any words. As soon as he left, the smile faded. The moment the front door clicked shut, Selene began pacing the length of the living room, her heels echoing sharply against the polished floor. She didn’t believe

"Another drink, sir?" Damien didn’t answer. He simply waved his fingers, his other hand gripping a tumbler half-filled with scotch. The bass of the music moved through the dark corners of the exclusive club, and strobe lights painted the walls in shades of red and purple, all his head could think of is what the board members had said. Girls danced on polished poles like their souls weren’t already dead. Smoke clouded the air, filled with perfume, cheap cologne, and sin. A brunette with fake lashes leaned in, pressing her lips to Damien’s neck. "Want me to make you forget tonight?" He pushed her away without looking. "I said, get me another drink. Not your cheap mouth." She flinched, scurrying off. The table was a mess. Empty bottles, cigarette ash, a half-eaten fruit platter. Damien leaned back into the leather booth, legs stretched, surrounded by three girls barely clothed, giggling as if their laughter was worth something. He was waiting. Waiting to feel alive. Waiting