Semua Bab Divorced by my Billionaire Ex, Now He Wants Me Back! : Bab 241 - Bab 250

241Alex.The hallway was quiet, unnervingly so. My mother led the way, her presence a tether to calm I didn’t feel. Every footstep echoed against the polished wood, bouncing off walls that had witnessed generations of Marwoods—secrets and lies layered thick as dust. I followed, careful to match her pace, knowing she had the knowledge of this house far beyond anyone else. Every hallway, every panel, every hinge whispered history.She paused at a linen closet, unremarkable except for the way she brushed her hand across a seam in the wall. The click was soft, almost dismissible, but it was enough. A hidden panel shifted, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The scent of old linens gave way to the cold, faintly metallic tang of concrete, the smell thickening as we went further down. I felt a familiar pulse of anticipation tighten in my chest.“This was supposed to hold art appraisals,” she said quietly, voice thin, almost hesitant. I could hear the weight in it—the kind

243Alex.The garden smelled of wet earth and crushed leaves. Even in the darkness, the moonlight filtered through the trees, casting fractured shadows across the estate walls. I crouched low, dragging the two ledger boxes behind me. The weight was tangible, each box loaded with evidence, with the fingerprints of my father’s hidden world. Every step felt precarious, as though a single sound might send guards converging on us.Mom stayed close, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Her presence grounded me, gave me something solid to focus on when the enormity of what we were carrying threatened to overwhelm me.I paused, adjusting my grip on the boxes. “Did you know?” My voice was low, careful, but raw with need.She hesitated, lips pressed together, eyes flicking to the shadowed corridors we’d just passed. The slightest tremor passed through her, and I could feel it, sharp as a knife. “I suspected,” she admitted finally, voice thin. “After the crash… your father was different. He

246Josh.The city air was sharp, the kind that clawed at my lungs and reminded me with every breath that we were living on borrowed time. I had a plan, a lattice of threads I had been building for years, and now every dangling connection, every overlooked alias, every buried number, had to be tied together. I moved with a feral precision, a controlled chaos that was both terrifying and necessary. This wasn’t about ego, or speed, or the thrill—it was about dismantling a machine that had been built on manipulation, secrecy, and cruelty, piece by piece, without leaving a single fragment unturned.I parked outside the rehab facility, engine off, and sat in the car for a moment, letting the tension coil tight around my chest. The man we were after—the witness, the one Sophie had relied on years ago—was tucked into the sterile monotony of this place, unaware of the storm about to descend. I checked my phone again, scanning the encrypted messages from Alex and Stella. Every pulse of communi

248Alex.The house was quiet, but the kind of quiet that pressed into my bones and demanded attention. The twins were safe with Anna, the drives and boxes secured, the affidavit and ledgers laid out across the war-room table like a map of the battlefield we were about to enter. Every sheet, every folder, every USB cable represented a piece of the Marwood puzzle: Sophie’s comms, Dane’s shell companies, Eleanor’s carefully concealed letter, the unsigned affidavit naming Dane himself, the ledgers from the hidden vault. All of it was there, and I felt the weight of it like a stone pressed across my chest.I had spent hours already, pacing the room, repositioning boards, color-coding connections, labeling shell accounts, and plotting out sequences of transactions and bribes. I was obsessed with precision—this wasn’t a game. This was a war. Lives were riding on every line, every ledger entry, every signature. Stella hovered near the edge of the table, leaning on her elbows, eyes scanning m

Dane.The podium gleamed under the stadium lights, microphones clustered like predatory insects. Flashbulbs popped and cameras whirred, the whine and click of machinery translating into an almost physical pressure against my skull. I took a slow breath, feeling the familiar weight of authority settle over my shoulders like armor—but this time, the armor felt brittle, stretched thin over nerves that had begun to fray.“Good afternoon,” I began, voice controlled, smooth and rehearsed. I let my eyes sweep across the crowd of reporters like a predator assessing territory. “I am here to address recent events concerning the Marwood family operations and recent media speculation.”They scribbled, clicked, leaned in. I let them hover in expectation, allowed the tension to rise. Timing was everything. I had built my career on perception, on the illusion of control. Now, I had to manufacture it again, carefully.“I have long advocated for transparency and accountability within our family enterp