บททั้งหมดของ His Ex Mistress, His Enemy: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

I had just taken my seat in the upstairs mediation room when the door swung open with the kind of grace that made your spine straighten.And in she walked.Vivienne Duclair.Blonde hair in a low ponytail, glossy black blazer, and maroon heels that clicked like tiny bullets with each step. In her hand, a single black folder. On her face, a polite smile slicker than French butter.“Miss Rosa,” she greeted, her Parisian accent sharp enough to slice fruit. “We meet again. How... delightful.”I returned a small nod and a smile thinner than the line between professionalism and suicidal ideation.“Vivienne,” I said, flipping open my file, pretending to be busy. “You look like a corporate law poster today. Straight, expensive, and immune to criticism.”She let out a soft chuckle. “You’ve always been such a natural entertainer.”“People say that a lot. Usually at bars, not courtrooms.”Vivienne pulled out a chair and sat across from me. A long table stood between us like a demilitarized zone.

The conference room was warmer today, technically. Sunlight poured in through the slits of the overpriced blinds at the end of the room, bouncing off the walnut table and documents laid out with surgical precision. Everything looked too polished to not be poisonous.The atmosphere? Still very much a minefield. And I was standing in the middle of it barefoot.Vivienne Duclair sat poised, hands folded neatly over a folder. Her black suit looked like couture straight from hell, and her face was calm, like she’d just finished torching all of Mars with a single smile.Across the table, Zane looked completely at ease, one hand twirling a Montblanc pen, the other resting under his chin like he wasn’t about to go through a legal dissection of his marriage. Like this was just brunch with oil execs.And Amelia?She was dressed in a white Balmain blazer and shoes that probably cost more than my assistant’s annual salary. But her eyes....those eyes had exploded three times before we even opened o

The folder in my hands felt as heavy as Thor’s hammer. Even though it only contained financial statements, asset breakdowns, and a property list long enough to make you question the limits of human greed.Today’s meeting wasn’t just about sharp glances across the table anymore. This was numbers. Ink on paper. Signatures below figures that made my stomach turn.“So you’re sure he’s not hiding anything?” I asked Amelia quietly as we sat in a conference room as cold as a morgue.She bit her thumbnail. Classic sign of stress. Or defeat. Or both.“He once owned a place in Nice I didn’t even know about until a year into the marriage. You really think that was the only one he kept secret?”I nodded slowly. “So we’re treating this whole report like... historical fiction?”She gave a weak smile. “Welcome to elite marriage. Where money and lies sleep in the same bed.”The door opened.Zane Romano walked in, Vivienne Duclair trailing behind him. They looked like they’d stepped off a legal thrill

New York never sleeps.Even when the morning air still clings to the last traces of dew, this city is already plotting how to wear you down before lunch.And me? I’d been behind my desk since 7:15. Hair pulled into a tight ponytail, cold espresso in hand, and my laptop screen glowing with a hundred legal clauses that read more like incantations than text. Spells to keep me sane.Three open cases. Two clients fighting over pug custody like it was a royal inheritance. One looming class-action threat from minority shareholders. And, of course, Amelia Romano, texting me at five in the damn morning to ask if we could fast-track the asset freeze clause before her family dinner.I wanted to reply: “Eat first. Maybe you’ll think more clearly when you’re not hangry.”But I didn’t. Because, unfortunately, professionalism doesn’t pay the bills.My fingers flew across the keyboard, eyes narrowing as I combed through the Romano Imperium stock restructure draft. Every number, every phrase, every sem

I closed the door softly, dropped my bag onto the credenza near the stairs, and kicked off my heels one at a time, mumbling to myself about how human feet were never designed for pretty shoes.The living room lights were dimmed, the curtains half-drawn.And there he was. Ash.Fast asleep on the wide sofa, one tiny hand gripping his stuffed bunny, his legs curled under a light blue blanket I didn’t even remember owning. His dark curls covered half his forehead, and his cheeks were a soft shade of pink.The world could be on fire and that child would still be out cold, as if nothing around him could ever matter enough to disturb his sleep.I smiled. Instinctively. And just before I could take a step toward him, a sound from the kitchen made me turn.Erick appeared from behind the kitchen island, still wearing the mustard-colored apron he hated, his hair slightly messy and his face... defeated."He was a whirlwind this afternoon," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Jumped from ro