Semua Bab We Divorced Now He Wants Me Back (Billionaire Contract Wife): Bab 131 - Bab 140

Maybe an hour or a few after our breakfast.That was how loosely time moved that morning. Not in minutes or seconds, but in feelings. In pauses. In small moments that stretched longer than they should have, like the quiet after laughter, or the silence before a truth you are not ready to hear.“Where are you heading to?” I asked my assistant, watching her move around the kitchen with a basket of freshly baked cookies balanced on her arm.The smell of butter and sugar still lingered in the air. Warm. Comforting. We had baked them together earlier, sleeves rolled up, flour on our fingers, laughing like two women with nothing heavy weighing on their hearts. I kept some aside carefully for my boys, arranging them neatly, because somehow, even the smallest things for them mattered too much to me.Mary Jane did not answer immediately. She just smiled, that quiet, knowing smile she always wore when she had already planned something and was waiting for the right moment to reveal it.Earlier t

Whenever I closed my eyes to the kiss, it stopped being a kiss. It turned into something else. Blood. It flooded my vision without warning, thick and red and too bright against white sheets. The metallic smell filled my nose, sharp enough to make my stomach twist. Then the cry came—thin, broken, desperate. A baby’s cry that cut straight through my chest and lodged itself there, screaming even when the sound faded. Voices followed. Too many voices. Doctors speaking in low tones. Nurses whispering. Accusations layered over accusations until I couldn’t tell who was speaking anymore. And then silence. The kind of silence that follows devastation. The kind that never really leaves you. And our marriage—ending not in flames or shouting, but in coldness. Papers slid across a table. Signatures pressed down like final nails in a coffin. Mine hollow. Years ago. But st

Thirty minutes ago.That was when I arrived at the gala.I didn’t come through the main entrance. I never did. The flash of cameras, the forced smiles, the noise. I hated all of it. The directors were already waiting for me at the private entrance, straightening their jackets the moment they saw me, their expressions careful, respectful, alert.“Mr. Markson,” one of them greeted.I gave a short nod and followed them without a word.They led me upstairs, straight to the VIP area. The moment I stepped inside, the sound from below softened, turning into a distant murmur. The balcony overlooked the entire hall, crystal lights reflecting off polished floors, champagne glasses raised everywhere. From up here, everything looked clean. Controlled. Perfect.A lie.I sat down, my posture relaxed but my mind alert. Men gathered around me almost immediately. Businessmen, directors, investors. People who talked too much when they felt important. Their voices blended together as they spoke about pr

That afternoon, the air felt heavier than usual. It wasn’t just Paris’ unpredictable weather or the low-hanging clouds threatening rain. It was the weight pressing on my chest—the kind that came when you knew people were waiting for you to fall. The car slowed as we arrived at the design competition site. Through the tinted window, I could already see it. Chaos. Paparazzi crowded the entrance, cameras raised, flashes bursting relentlessly. Reporters pushed forward, microphones clashing as security struggled to hold them back. Even before I stepped out, I could hear my name echoing through the noise. “Ms. Alice—!” “Alice, is it true?” “Did you plagiarize another designer’s work?” “Who are you really backed by?” I exhaled slowly. Mary Jane glanced at me from the passenger seat, worry written all over her face. “Ms. Alice…” I straightened my spine. “It’s fine,” I said calmly, even though my heart was pounding. “Let’s go.” The door opened. The moment my heels touched the gr

The meeting dragged on longer than it should have.Too long.By the time I stepped into the boardroom, I already knew they were upset. I could feel it in the air—the tension, the impatience, the way conversations stopped the moment I entered. Directors sat stiffly around the long glass table, fingers tapping, brows furrowed, eyes sharp with calculation rather than trust.This wasn’t about creativity anymore.This was about money.Stocks.Fear.“We need to address the situation immediately,” one of the directors said before I had even taken my seat. “The plagiarism issue is spreading faster than expected.”Another nodded. “Investors are uneasy. They don’t understand what’s happening, and uncertainty is dangerous.”I placed my tablet on the table and slowly sat down.I was tired.Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that settles deep in your bones—the exhaustion of constantly defending yourself when you know the truth but aren’t allowed to reveal it yet.“I’ve already ex