All Chapters of FORSAKEN WIFE, NOW A BILLIONAIRE'S GREATEST REGRET: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The air in the war room, thick with the shock of my suspension, now crackled with a new, volatile energy. A Senate subcommittee. The words hung in the air, both a lifeline and a threat.Lawrence was the first to break the silence. "A Senate investigation? Gwen, that's... that's a double-edged sword. The exposure is immense, but so is the risk. They'll pick your life apart with tweezers.""They're already doing that," I shot back, the sting of the bar complaint and the board's betrayal still fresh. "This isn't about my life anymore. It's about his crime. Wexler said it herself: the abuse of shell corporations, the manipulation of charitable funding. They see a pattern. Alistair didn't just attack me; he created a blueprint for financial terrorism against non-profits."Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with a hunter's focus. "She's right. This transcends your personal drama. This becomes a matter of public policy. Finch is no longer just your stalker; he's a case study. This is better than I could

“Don’t answer it,” Lawrence said immediately.“Answer it,” Eleanor and I said in unison.Maria, after a hesitant glance at Arthur, who gave a curt nod, clicked accept.Alistair Finch’s face filled the screen. He was in a tastefully appointed study, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked calm, avuncular, and utterly pleased with himself.“Gwendolyn! Arthur!” he said, as if greeting old friends at a cocktail party. “I see you’ve received my latest correspondence. I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”“What do you want, Alistair?” I asked, my voice flat.“Why, to offer a truce, of course,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “This is all getting so… messy. So public. The foundation, the Senate, now poor Isabella’s inheritance… it’s a lot for a family to bear.” He leaned forward, his expression one of mock concern. “Drop the lawsuit. Withdraw from the Senate hearing. Issue a public statement that you were… emotionally compromised. In return, I will call off Isabella. I

The sterile, marbled hallway seemed to tilt around me. The phone felt slick in my sweaty hand. "He's... what?""He's here," Arthur repeated, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "He bought a ticket for the public gallery. He's going to be in the room, Gwen. Watching you."The psychological warfare was escalating to a terrifying, intimate level. He wouldn't be a specter in the shadows or a voice on a screen. He would be a man in a suit, sitting a few dozen feet away, his eyes on me as I testified. He wanted to see me sweat, to hear the subtle catch in my voice, to be a living, breathing reminder that he held all the cards."Did you hear me?" Arthur's voice was sharp with fear. "You need to get out of there. Now. The briefing is over.""It's not," I whispered, my gaze fixed on the closed door of the conference room. "They're suspicious. If I run out now, I look guilty. I look like I'm hiding something.""Gwen, damn it, this isn't about looking guilty! He's unpredictable!""And I am a witness b

The silence in the beach house was a physical weight, heavier than any gavel or judgment. Arthur’s absence was a void that swallowed all sound, all light. LJ had stumbled after his father, leaving me alone in the living room with the scattered evidence of our collapse.Eleanor found me there some time later, still standing where Arthur had left me. She didn’t offer sympathy. She assessed the situation with a cold, clinical eye.“He’ll need time,” she stated. “The male ego, particularly one built on competence and control, is a fragile thing. He’s not blaming you. He’s blaming the circumstance, and you are the most tangible part of it.”“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered, my voice raw. “The result is the same.”“It matters a great deal,” she countered. “If he blamed you, he would be shouting. This… this quiet devastation? This is him blaming himself. For not being stronger. For failing his patient. For failing you.” She picked up the malpractice suit, scanning it. “Finch is diabolical. H

The profound peace that followed Isabella’s visit felt deeper, more earned. It was as if the last loose thread of our past had been neatly tied off. Arthur seemed lighter, the final shadow of guilt over Elena and the child he’d lost finally dissipating. We settled into a rhythm that was sweet and predictable, our days measured in coffee, crosswords, and the joyful chaos of grandchildren’s visits.It was during one such visit, while helping our eight-year-old granddaughter, Lily, with a school project on local history, that the new trouble began. She’d spread old maps and newspapers across my desk.“Look, Nana!” she said, pointing a small finger at a faded society page photo from the 1970s. “That lady looks like you!”I leaned over. It was a charity gala. A much younger version of me stood beside a dashing, dark-haired man in a tuxedo, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. The caption read: Up-and-coming attorney Gwendolyn Vance with her esteemed colleague, Lance Crowe