All Chapters of Divorced: Ex-wife Heiress Strikes Back: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

FREDA.I had always considered myself to be the architect of control; the woman who never blinked, who never faltered. Fear was a tool I wielded with precision, a weapon I had sharpened across years of calculated dominance. It was something I gave, never something I felt. But that night, as rain whispered against the windows of my study and the amber of my whiskey reflected the low light of my desk lamp, I felt it for the first time. It felt like a pressure in the air, an unease that threaded beneath her skin.The silence was wrong, too deep and too deliberate for how alert I was. It was the kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness, but watchfulness. The kind that signified a pause before something moved.My study was immaculate, every document stacked in surgical order. I was reviewing a dossier on Bruce’s last known financial transfers when something broke the rhythm — a flicker at the edge of my vision. It was a single envelope, resting in the center of my desk, perfectly aligned, as t

FREDA.I stood in the doorway of Alexandro’s mansion, my fingers tightening around the strap of my purse as the butler closed the door behind me. The world outside felt too loud, filled with sirens, whispers and footsteps I could no longer trust. Inside, the quiet was different, thicker, like the house itself was holding its breath.For months, I had considered this mansion my escape in every plot I made; a fortress of marble and gold where reality bent to my command. The chandelier still cast its golden glow over the foyer, and the familiar scent of cedar and wine lingered faintly in the air. Yet tonight, all that luxury felt more like armor than comfort, like there was something fragile standing between me and the shadow that had been stalking my every move.Alexandro appeared at the top of the staircase, his tie loose, his expression softening as soon as he saw me. “Freda,” he said, descending quickly. “You should have called. You look—”“Tired?” I interrupted with a hollow smile.

ISABELLA.The message had come days ago. short, curt, and laced with the kind of command that usually made people tremble. But I was not most people.I sat behind my polished glass desk, the morning sunlight spilling across the room like molten gold, catching on the diamond clasp of my silk blouse. Below me, from the penthouse view, Clarissa’s former empire, now gradually becoming mine, stretched out in all its restless glory. The company, what it stood for, the power. Every connection that once bowed to Clarissa was now beginning to answer to me.The Cloak’s message lay on her phone, unread but impossible to ignore:“He wants to see you. There’s a surprise.”I had laughed when I had first seen it. There was something about the audacity, the drama that came with his messages. The Cloak always had a flair for the theatrical; the shadows, the cryptic calls, the veiled threats. But I wasn’t one of the frightened one

MARCUS.I had built my empire on control; not luck, not charm, not even chance. Control. Every handshake was calculated, every threat was delivered with precision, and every ally was carefully chosen because they feared me more than they respected me. For decades, I had ruled from boardrooms and backrooms alike, untouchable and unshakable. I was a quiet architect of power.But that morning, for the first time, control began to slip through my fingers.The conference room was a masterpiece of intimidation, the mahogany table polished to a perfect sheen, the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city, the scent of imported cigars still lingering faintly in the air. Around the table sat my most trusted men; senators who had traded votes for favors, investors whose fortunes I had doubled, and executives who owed me their titles.Yet the air was different today. I could smell it, the unease.The conversation was meant to be a strategy session, a way to

CLARISSA.My days had begun to blur together, my sleepless nights dissolving into anxious mornings, my hands trembling from too much caffeine and too little rest. Even the air in my penthouse felt stale now, heavy with perfume and paranoia. Every creak, every faint hum from the vents made me flinch. I had grown used to being in control, but lately, it felt as though my chaos had turned on me.When the news of Isabella’s disappearance broke that morning, I didn’t react at first. I was sitting by the window, absently stirring my untouched coffee as the reporter’s voice droned from the television.Billionaire daughter and heiress, Isabella Montclair, was reported missing for seventy-two hours.She was just another name, another casualty, another echo in the endless spiral that had begun with him.My gaze lingered on the screen, my reflection faintly visible in the glossy black surface. The woman staring back at me looked like a ghost