All Chapters of BILLIONAIRE’s REGRET : I MARRIED EX- HUSBAND ENEMY: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

-LIANA-Tell me. Please tell me.That this is all a dream.The flashbulbs still burned behind my eyes when the prison gates slammed shut, heavy iron gnashing like teeth. The echo lingered, bouncing off concrete walls, a warning I couldn’t ignore.Just hours ago, I had stood beneath chandeliers, diamonds scattering light across marble floors. Now, concrete pressed in from every side. The air was thick with sweat, bleach, despair,a suffocating cocktail that clawed at my lungs.My midnight gown, heels clicking over marble, vanished. In its place: a coarse orange uniform that scraped against my skin like sandpaper.I glanced at my wrist. Red blisters had begun to form, sharp reminders of my sudden fall from luxury. From perfection to punishment. From life to survival.The stench of fear was everywhere. Sweat and bleach mingled with something raw, animalistic. My first thought wasn’t for myself,it was for the life growing inside me.The baby. My baby. Innocent. Fragile. The only piece of m

-LIANA-The safe house door slammed behind me with a dull thud, cutting off the city’s hum. I leaned against it, trembling, bruised, raw.My body ached in ways I didn’t know were possible. Ribs throbbed with each breath. My cheek stung like it had been branded. Arms sore from every shove, every punch,I felt each one in my bones, in my muscles, in the way my body refused to obey fully. But for the first time in months, I breathed air that wasn’t tainted by iron bars and fear.Was I more sensitive because of the baby? Maybe. Maybe I was more awake, more aware, more alive,and yet more vulnerable.Tristan walked toward me, a glass of water in hand. Water. It looked almost holy. I grabbed it, gulping every drop, letting the cool liquid wash down, soothing the rawness in my throat.He then crouched beside me, inspecting the worst of my injuries. His touch was calm, precise, clinical. Not gentle. Not condescending. Just controlled. He dabbed a cool cloth across my swollen cheek, eyes sharp,

-CASSIAN HALE- The world doesn’t stop when you realize it’s ending. The orchestra keeps playing, the champagne keeps pouring, the vultures keep circling the chandelier light. But all I can see is the boy clinging to her hand. All I can hear is the faint echo of his laughter, cutting through every polite conversation in the room. My son. No. Don’t think it. Don’t say it. My glass trembles in my hand, the stem slick with condensation and sweat. I should put it down before it shatters, but I can’t. Not when those gray eyes—my gray eyes—stare back at me from a face too young, too untouched by betrayal, to know what kind of man he might have inherited them from. Scarlett whispers something at my side, her perfume thick as honey. I don’t catch the words. I don’t care. My ears are ringing. My pulse is a war drum. The room bends toward them. Not me. Not Hale Corp’s golden son. Toward them. Toward Tristan Halenti, smiling like the devil, and the woman beside him. Her. Liana.

- Cassian Hale-The gala winds down in a hush of folding chairs and last-minute toasts, but the scent of her perfume lingers as if it’s been pasted to the room. People shuffle toward exits, conversations unravel into polite goodbyes, the orchestra tucks its violins away. I stand where the light still finds me and watch them go.Liana’s hand in Tristan’s. Elias at her side, trotting like he owns the marble. Her chin tilted, the old stubborn set to it I remember too well. She moves through the room like someone who’s been taught how to be seen and not touched—a carefully practiced armor. Tristan’s arm is a careful claim; the photographers drink it in.I tell myself this is strategy. I tell myself I need to watch, to understand how Halenti rebuilt what I once took for granted. I tell myself the curiosity is corporate, not personal.It’s a lie.All I can see are the boy’s eyes—clear, gray, the exact depth I took from the world and hid inside me. He looks up at her with a trust she didn’t

-CASSIAN HALE-The city wakes before I do.Sunlight claws through glass, slicing across my desk in sharp lines. Harper’s voice filters in from the other room, polite and nervous, her heels ticking like a metronome. There’s a file on my desk—neatly stacked, untouched whiskey beside it.“Here’s everything you asked for, Mr. Hale,” she says softly.I nod, not looking up. “Leave it.”The door clicks shut, and I open the file.Elias Halenti.Born in Switzerland. Private clinic. Legal parents: Tristan Halenti and Liana Halenti.Everything gleams—official seals, crisp digital records, perfect timestamps. Too perfect.I flip through again, slower. Date of birth, five years ago. Not so far from Liana’s sentencing. I remember because I was there—on the phone, finalizing an acquisition while she sat behind bulletproof glass in orange, silent and still.Except—there’s a gap. The date she “died” in the records, the one the media swallowed whole, lines up with Elias’s supposed due date.It’s not a