All Chapters of My CEO mate: Divorce made me his: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

THEAHe walks in slowly, like he’s stepping onto a minefield, his black tank top clinging to his well-built body His eyes scan the damage—the table, the broken glass, the fallen lamp—and then they flick back to me. He says nothing, but I see it. The guilt. The regret. The apology that doesn't make it past his lips.I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of the way my shorts cling to my thighs, the loose tank brushing my bruised skin like memory, my hair that looks like a nest. I look away, too proud to flinch.“What are you doing here?” I ask, not looking at him.He sighs, making his way in. “I told you I'll be back.”“But the last time I checked, common courtesy demands me calling you before you show up at my home at 6:54 am,” I say flatly, the words scraping my throat.“I couldn’t sleep.”“Must be nice,” I snap, turning toward the broken pieces on the floor. “Having insomnia as a luxury instead of a symptom.”Ezra moves closer. Too close. He always does this—invading quietly,

EZRAI don’t know who the hell I’ve become, but I’m standing in Thea’s kitchen at 8:17 on a Sunday morning, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants, cooking eggs I don’t even eat. For her.Why? No bloody clue.Don't blame me, okay?She’s upstairs, still asleep—hair all over the pillow like chaos itself, breathing softly like she's never broken a single thing in her life. And me? I’ve turned into a fucking Pin terest user. I even Googled how to fold eggs. Fold. Eggs. As if that’s a thing.One YouTube tutorial and a scalded fingertip which healed on spot later, I’m watching the pan like it owes me money.The kitchen smells like butter, something faintly sweet, and the ghost of my pride. There’s a second where I catch my reflection in the microwave—messy hair, stubble, no shirt—and I blink.Fuck. They say practice makes perfection but I didn't even try to master how to cook all these centuries. I can't even remember the last time I cooked.This is how it starts, isn’t it? One minute you’re

THEAEzra must’ve thought I was joking when I said I was getting revenge.Sweetheart, I don’t joke about revenge unless I have no intentions to.And now, Newsflash: I meant every damn word.In fact, I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life but just never thought much about it. Like, this? Right here? It’s not impulsive. It’s not irrational. It’s destiny. Manifestation. Karma in designer heels.Let’s rewind a bit.Back in my teenage years, I devoured those stories—you know the ones. Girl meets brooding billionaire. He gives her his black card. She holds it like it's a radioactive isotope and says, “Oh no, I could never spend your money!”Wait, let's be for real.I would spend that money like I’ve got an eviction notice and two hours to live. I'll even invite Lyra if possible and buy a first class ticket to sponsor her trip just so we could spend it together.So, now that I finally have a billionaire and his black card? Oh, I’m going full main character. No budget. No mercy. No s

THEAMy fingers tighten around the leather straps of my purse.I look her up and down, deliberately. Calmly. Taking my time like I’m shopping for a reaction.“I could say the same about you,” I reply, my voice even. “Though somehow, this store does feel like your kind of playground. Lots of mirrors.”Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite a sneer either. Just... acknowledgment. She tilts her head, the ends of her blonde waves cascading over her trench like they’ve been styled to land there. “Didn’t know you’re funny,” she says lightly, folding her arms. “That’s cute.”I shrug, my heels clicking as I shift my weight. “Only on days that end in Y.”Isla’s eyes rake over me—slow, pointed, invasive. It’s not the casual once-over women give each other. It’s deeper. Intentional. Hunting for something. And when she meets my gaze again, her eyes are glinting, and there's something I can't pinpoint in her eyes.“You smell different,” she murmurs.I blink.“Excuse me?” I ask, trying to keep

THEAI lift Finn into my arms the moment I see him, like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I don’t hold him close enough.“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper into his hair, hugging him tight, the scent of cookies and crayons and his shampoo doing something awful to my chest. “I’m so sorry I was late.”He just shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s okay, Mommy. Lilly’s mommy was late too. She’s still inside,” he adds proudly, like it’s some kind of leaderboard and I’m in second place.I bite back a laugh, clutching him tighter, lunch bag straps clutched between my fingers as I thank his homeroom teacher, Mrs Patel, with a tight, embarrassed smile. She waves me off like this is standard procedure, like forgetting your child is just part of the fine print in the motherhood contract.Maybe it is.We walk toward the parking lot—well, I walk, Finn does this happy little bounce in my arms like he’s just glad to be in motion—and for a split second, I feel okay.Then—“Where’s your car, Mommy?” he asks, turning