All Chapters of His Ex Mistress, His Enemy: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

I reopened the tab I’d saved last night and skimmed through my notes on white-collar criminal liability and attorney-client privilege boundaries. The kind of stuff I’d cursed for five straight years for keeping me awake at night.But tonight or technically, this afternoon...my anxious brain needed something to control. And the law, no matter how awful, always came with rules.Tilting my head, I scrolled through the e-book, trying to remember the last time I studied not to win an argument but just to learn.The room was quiet in a way that didn’t feel right. Silence wasn’t rare in this house, but this one felt like the echo of a bullet left in the wall.Maybe I should go back to school. Maybe I needed something new.My firm’s senior partner said they’d call once the gossip died down. But no one knew how long “dying down” lasted in the legal world. Three weeks? Three months? Or until I changed my face and name?I clicked to the next page, then stopped. Comparative Constitutional Law: An

Plates and bowls were already lined up on the dining table, forks mysteriously missing as usual, and Ash’s favorite plastic cup with the tow truck decal sat waiting. Steam rose from the warm rice, filling the air with that strange, homey smell that made the house feel like an actual place to live instead of a war zone with rent.Ash sat down. For half a second. Then stood up. Then sat again. Then, like a tiny creature powered by endless batteries, bolted down the hallway with a shout that could’ve triggered a fire drill.“I’m sleeping in Mami’s room tonight! With Papi!”A curse came from Maritza in the kitchen, probably because her salad just got hit with triple the dressing. Zane bit back a laugh, shot me a look, and leaned against the wall like he wasn’t the root of every hormonal disaster in this house.“Oh?” His voice was low, almost a whisper that slid between the sounds. “The three of us? You sure that’s wise, Dianna? You might get... nostalgic.”A kitchen rag flew through the a

The car glided down the main road, the radio playing jazz that felt too relaxed for my mood that morning. Maritza, pink crossbody bag and battle-ready face, had already gone into the school with Ash, joining the other babysitters who looked more like a special ops unit with luxury strollers and discreet spy cams in their purses. If they handed out Oscars for Best Supporting Role in Protecting a Billionaire Kid, Maritza would take one home every year.I sat in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, hoodie up, trying to look like a failed contestant on a reality show. Zane drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on his thigh, his fingers tapping the rhythm of the song. He slicked his hair back, but a few rebellious strands fell across his forehead with that annoyingly casual, lethal movement.I exhaled and opened my mouth without turning to him. “If the paparazzi catch us again, I’m going viral with a headline like ‘Scandal Lawyer Caught Kissing Prince Romano.’” I drew a breath. “Thi

I grabbed my phone off the kitchen counter, opened ERICK’s contact, and hit the call button with a finger still slick with oil. Not the time to care about fingerprints on glass.Ring one.Two.Three.And—“The number you’ve reached is currently unavai—”I hung up before the operator’s voice could finish spreading rejection through my nervous system.Redial. Wait.Still dead.Once more, this time with more bite in my pulse. Nothing. Straight to voicemail.I tossed the phone onto the couch. Sat down at the dining table, staring at the pile of photo scraps and that blood-red lipstick sitting in the middle of a tablecloth dusted with cat food crumbs. What kind of twisted performance was Erick directing?I opened WhatsApp, scrolled down to the group chat labeled WOMEN WHO SURVIVED MEN & MARGARITA. Icon: cocktail glass, crying-laughing emoji, the ones I used too often to cover up real trauma.I typed fast:[DIANNA]Erick just sent me red lipstick and shredded photos of me, Zane, and Ash fro

The elevator in Erick’s penthouse moved like it hated me. Every second stretched, deliberate, almost smug.“If this thing could talk,” I muttered, glaring at the red digital numbers, “it’d probably join the long list of bastards trying to ruin my day.”The doors slid open with a soft hum. The hallway looked the same as the last time I was here. Clean, sterile, and expensive. The kind of luxury that tried too hard to hide how emotionally unstable its owner really was.I stopped at his door. Pressed the bell once.Twice.Three times.Nothing. No footsteps. No curse words about being woken up at eight in the morning.Silence.I squinted at the keypad beside the door. My fingers tapped the code I’d always used. His first birthday date, followed by the so-called lucky number that only ever brought him bad luck, mainly in the form of me.Beep. Incorrect.Okay. Maybe I hit the wrong button. Tried again.Beep.I stared at the screen. “You changed the code, Ric?” I whispered to the door. “Afte