FORSAKEN WIFE, NOW A BILLIONAIRE'S GREATEST REGRET のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 121 - チャプター 130

The silence on the boat after LJ’s call was absolute, broken only by the gentle slap of water against the hull. The sun felt suddenly too bright, the cove too small. We were exposed.Arthur was the first to move, restarting the engine with a decisive turn. “We need to get back,” he said, his voice stripped of all its usual playfulness. “Now.”The putter back to the dock felt interminable. My phone, now a live grenade, began to vibrate incessantly—unknown numbers, likely reporters. I silenced it and shoved it deep into my pocket.Back in the house, the digital storm had already made landfall. Arthur pulled up the business blog, “The Venture Edge,” on his laptop. The headline was exactly as LJ had said. The article was a masterpiece of insinuation. It mentioned the pier shooting, the foundation, my “volatile personal life,” and my “documented closeness” with Lanc Arcony, “a former law en

The victory with Commissioner Peterson tasted of peach pie and fleeting hope. Groundbreaking for Lanc's project was scheduled, a symbolic stake in the ground against Carson Pryce's "emotional underbrush." The community buzz was a tangible force, a collective middle finger to the glossy, faceless future Apex promised.Then, the new blow landed. Not from Pryce directly, but from the cold, impersonal machinery he excelled at manipulating.Lanc showed up at our door on a Tuesday morning, but not with his usual focused intensity. He looked hollowed out, the lines on his face etched deeper by a shock that had nothing to do with business rivalry.“It’s Chloe,” he said, his voice scraped raw. He didn't wait for an invitation, just walked into the living room and sank onto the sofa as if his legs had given out. Arthur an

The days before the groundbreaking bled together in a blur of flour, phone calls, and tactical flourishes. My kitchen looked like a pie bomb had detonated. Peach, apple-cranberry, and a daring chocolate-pecan streusel (Arthur’s request) cooled on every available surface. The scent of sugar and butter was our war perfume.Arthur was at the dining table, now command central, meticulously crafting The Invitation. He’d sourced thick, cream-laid paper from a local artisan. His fountain pen hovered like a raptor.“How’s this?” he read aloud, his voice a parody of corporate blandness. “‘Dear Mr. Pryce, We are writing to cordially invite you to witness a pivotal moment in our community’s organic growth…’ Too much?”“The word ‘o

The crack in the monolith was microscopic, but I felt its presence like a seismic shift. Ben Sorrel’s haunted look, his muttered data point about soil percolation, was a breadcrumb dropped in the dark forest of Pryce’s empire. We weren’t armed, but we had a scent.I reported the non-conversation back to the war council in my living room. Arthur listened, eyes closed, as if parsing a complex melody. Lanc paced, a caged bear. Chloe, now a permanent fixture, scrolled through her phone with a scowl.“A conscience is not a strategy,” Lanc grumbled, stopping by the fireplace. “It’s a liability. For him. He’ll either squash it or quit, and we’ll be back to square one with a six-month delay.”“Maybe,” Arthur said, opening his eyes. “But Gwen’s right. It&r

The confrontation required a stage. We couldn't go to his rented cliffside mansion; that was his territory. The school was a warzone. Our homes were sanctuaries, now violated. So Arthur proposed neutral ground: the back room of The Salty Dog, the oldest, most stubbornly un-renovated pub on the coast. It smelled of decades of beer, fried fish, and unvarnished truth. Old Bob, the owner, owed Lanc for fixing his roof after a storm twenty years ago. He asked no questions, just handed Arthur the key.The room was a time capsule of wood paneling and faded nautical charts. We arrived early. Tanya, a wisp of a girl with bitten nails and enormous, frightened eyes, sat between Chloe and me, sipping a Coke like it was lifeline. Arthur and Lanc stood by the foggy window, a study in contrasts: Arthur, still and watchful; Lanc, a live wire of contained fury."He won't come," Lanc muttered, checking his watch for the tenth time."He'll come," Arthur said, his voice calm. "Curiosity is a lever. And h