บททั้งหมดของ The EX-Wife Returns : บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

The walk to the visitor’s area felt longer than usual. Calla’s heels made soft sounds on the clean floor. Her mind was busy, full of other thoughts. She was not thinking about the past. She had locked that door long ago. So when she turned the corner and saw the man standing there, her whole world stopped for a single, silent second. It was Vincenzo. He was leaning on the wall, but when he saw her, he stood straight. A slow smile spread across his face. It was the same smile that once made her heart light. Now, it only made her feel tired. “Nice seeing you again, Calla,” he said. His voice was, smooth and deep. Calla stared at him. She said nothing. Her face was calm, but inside, a storm had started. Neva, who was walking close behind, stepped forward fast. Her hand touched the gun at her side. “What is this Carbon doing here?” she asked coldly, her voice like ice. She looked ready to throw him out. Calla lifted her hand to stop Neva. She didn’t look away from Vincenzo. “It’s

Calla was quiet for a long moment. The anger was not in her eyes, but a deep sadness. She let out a soft sigh, the fight seeming to leave her shoulders for a second, replaced by a heavy understanding. “I am sorry,” she said, her voice low and clear. It wasn’t an apology to him, but for him. For the situation. “I am truly sorry for what happened to you. To both of you. To Helen. That is a… a terrible pain to carry. A weight no one should have to hold.” Vincenzo watched her, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt. She took a slow breath, choosing her words with care. “But you know… you both lost her. You both lost someone important to you. I hear it when you say her name. You lost her too. That pain… it belongs to both of you. It’s a shared hurt. Not a weapon for one to use against the other.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but his voice lacked its earlier sharpness. It was defensive. “Maybe I don’t,” she admitted. “But I know what it is to lo

After they ate, Neva’s face turned serious again. “I must go soon. I will call some men to guard the house while I am away.” “No,” Calla said immediately. “No guards. I will be fine. I have the gun you gave me. I know how to use it now. I won’t run. I promise.” Neva looked worried. “Calla, after the hospital… I do not like the idea of you being here alone.” “I am not the same woman I was at the hospital,” Calla said, and she meant it. The news of two babies had lit a new fire in her. She had too much to fight for now. “I will lock the door. I will have my gun. Nothing will happen.” Neva saw the new strength in her eyes and finally nodded. She could not win this argument. “Okay. But you be careful. I will come back with good news.” * * Neva drove to the headquarters of La Fiamma, her mind sharp and clear. She gathered what she needed: strong rope, a black cloth bag, a sedative shot. She picked three of her best, quietest men. They asked no questions. They just followed.

She slowly lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by inch, savoring the way he filled her. His hands moved to her hips, gripping her tightly, but he didn't move, letting her set the pace. She began to move, riding him with a slow, sensual rhythm, her hips swaying above him. He watched her, his eyes dark with desire, as she took control, as she pleasured herself on him, using him for her own satisfaction. He could feel her inner walls squeezing him, milking him with each movement, and it drove him wild. His fingers dug into her skin as he fought the urge to take over, to slam into her. But he restrained himself, letting her have this moment, letting her believe she was in charge. She leaned forward, her hands on his chest, and quickened her pace, her breath coming in short gasps. He could see the pleasure in her eyes, the way her body trembled with each thrust, and he knew she was getting close. He reached between them and found her clit, his thumb circling it slowly at first, the

The morning sun broke through the curtains, warm light spreading across Calla’s room. She stood before the mirror, not just dressing for another day at work, but for blood. Tonight, she told herself, Damien Calloway would suffer. Not just die, suffer. Torture was the word. Torture in cold blood. She slid on her black suit, sharp and neat, then pressed her lips together, painting them red to match her high heels. It was bold, it was dangerous, and it was fitting. She picked up her black bag, checked inside, and made sure her gun was tucked safely within. Downstairs, the smell of food filled the air. Neva was already at the table, breakfast laid out, steam rising. “This is a lot to eat,” Calla muttered, eyeing the plates. “You’re eating for three, it's got to be a lot." Neva said with a shrug, chewing on her toast. “I don’t feel like eating this. Some junk food will do. I don’t know, I just can’t eat this.” Calla shook her head and dropped into a chair. “I’m sorry.” “Damn pregnanc