All Chapters of Divorced by my Billionaire Ex, Now He Wants Me Back! : Chapter 231 - Chapter 240

231Alex.I stood in my office, the envelope from Sophie in one hand, my phone in the other, and a sense of cold inevitability curling around my spine. You’re learning, darling. My jaw tightened. Rico had been right all along. Sophie wasn’t trying to hide. She was baiting us. Drawing us into her tempo. Setting a trap and daring us to step inside. I could feel the rhythm of her control in every calculated move she’d made over the past twenty-four hours. Each message, each diversion, each poorly timed alarm, every manipulated ferry route—it all built toward something bigger. Something she thought we wouldn’t anticipate.Marcus walked in without knocking, his pace brisk, tension visible in the set of his shoulders. He carried two updates on a tablet that blinked softly under the office lights. The first made my stomach tighten: the taser-wielding man we’d pinned in Corridor G had lawyered up immediately and refused to name his employer. No surprise. Sophie had probably arranged it in adv

233Alex.Sophie kissed my cheek like we were late to dinner and she was smoothing over a social misstep. Her lips were cool, practiced, a faint citrus note clinging to her perfume. She pulled back just enough to look pleased with herself, eyes flicking to Stella’s jacket, to the line of her ribs where the drive was taped. “I see you’ve brought the files,” she said lightly, as if we were discussing a bottle of wine.I didn’t wipe my cheek. I didn’t step away. I kept my face neutral and my shoulders loose, the way Rico had drilled into me days ago when everything depended on appearing bored. Stella stood half a pace to my left, posture steady, chin level. The wind had calmed, but the sea still beat the rocks below with a steady, hollow rhythm that traveled through the pier into my boots.Sophie turned and led us inside without waiting for an answer.The house was white on white, glass and stone and open air, designed to look minimal and peaceful while hiding lines of control in every c

235.Alex.The sound hit first.Not the rotors themselves, but the way the air seemed to compress, like the night was being folded inward by force. The estate’s floodlights flickered as the helicopter banked low over the lawn, its shadow skimming across white stone and manicured grass before swallowing both.I looked up just long enough to register the angle. Too low. Too deliberate. Dane never arrived quietly.“We’ve got seconds,” I said into the comm, already moving. “Marcus, get Stella to the boat. Now.”Static, then Marcus’s voice, tight but controlled. “On it.”Rico appeared at the end of the corridor, dragging Lydia behind him. She was stumbling, barefoot now, wrists cuffed, her face swollen and mottled with bruises that looked newer than the rest. She met my eyes once, something like apology flickering there before Rico hauled her forward again.“Pier’s clear for the moment,” he said. “But that won’t last.”“It never does,” I replied.Another thud shook the building, closer this

237Alex.Seeing my parents on that screen did something ugly to my stomach.It was not shock. Shock implied surprise, and somewhere deep down, I had always known this was possible. It was more like recognition, the sickening kind that crawled up your spine when a long ignored truth finally stood up and said its name out loud.The footage replayed on a loop, the camera angle shifting every few seconds as reporters elbowed one another for position. The audio crackled with overlapping voices, shouted questions, the clipped excitement of people who knew they were witnessing something profitable. But the moment itself never changed.My mother stepped forward first.Her posture was open, arms spreading as if she were greeting a relative returning from a long, difficult journey. The gesture was warm, rehearsed, polished by decades of knowing exactly how to look sincere under a lens. Sophie leaned in without hesitation, smiling faintly as she accepted the embrace. Their cheeks brushed. My mo

239Alex.The study smelled of polished wood and old money. Every corner of the room was rigid, too precise, like it had been designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure. David Marwood sat behind the enormous mahogany desk, the kind that swallowed anyone who dared approach. He leaned back, fingers interlaced, posture perfect, a monument to control and arrogance.I didn’t sit. Not yet. Standing felt safer, sharper, more deliberate. I had a letter in my hand, sealed, Eleanor’s familiar handwriting still pristine on the page, naming him explicitly: “D.M.” My stomach twisted in anticipation, anger, disbelief.“Did you sign anything tied to Eleanor?” I asked, voice calm but low, intentionally measured. I let the weight of the question hang in the air, watching him closely.David’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Did I sign anything? That’s a broad question, Alex. Are we speaking legally? Financially? Morally?”I felt the tension in my chest spike. He was stone