Lahat ng Kabanata ng After The Divorce: Ex-Husband Regrets And Begs Me: Kabanata 341 - Kabanata 350

PRESENT DAY:​I pull out my phone. I dial the number I have memorized, the number that belongs to Lysander Ashcroft which I know he is still using till date.​He answers on the third ring.​"Lysander Ashcroft," he says. His voice is calm, measured, the voice of a man who has faced worse enemies than me. It is the voice of a man who has never known true loss. A man who has never had everything taken from him.​"Nikolai Drakon," I say. "I am sure you remember me."​There is a pause on the other end of the line and I can hear him breathing.​"I remember you," he says. "I thought you were dead."​"I should be. But I am not." I lean back in my chair. "I am out of prison, Lysander. And I am coming for what is mine."​I take a breath. The words are cold and deliberate.​"I want my daughter. I want Camille. I want the money you stopped my father from making when you took him down. You will help me rebuild the Drakon empire, give me back what is rightfully mine, or I will destroy everything yo

​ALISTAIR'S POV:​The house is a war zone.​I am in the hallway when the explosion hits, thrown against the wall by the force of the blast. My ears are ringing. My vision is blurry. The world seems to tilt around me, the walls spinning, the ceiling pressing down. But I am still standing. I lean heavily against the paneling, coughing as thick gray smoke fills my lungs.​I push myself up. I shake my head to clear it and then look around.​I see them. Armed men, their faces hidden behind masks, their weapons raised. They are moving through the house like shadows, searching for something, searching for someone. Their boots echo on the marble floor. Their voices are low and guttural.​I do not wait. I move.​I have never been a fighter. I have always been the quiet one, the brilliant one, the one who solves problems with his mind instead of his fists. But tonight, I have no choice. I am fighting for my family. I am fighting for Elara.​I grab a fire poker from the wall. It is heavy and sol

​LYSANDER'S POV:​The morning after the attack, I stand in the ruins of my home and I feel nothing.​The house is still standing, but barely. The windows are shattered, the glass scattered across the floors like diamonds. The walls are scarred with bullet holes, the plaster cracked and crumbling. The furniture is overturned, the paintings torn, the carpets stained with blood. The security system is destroyed, its wires hanging from the walls like dead vines. The gates are bent and broken, the metal twisted into grotesque shapes. The garden is trampled, the roses crushed under the boots of the men who came to destroy us, their petals scattered across the ground like fallen soldiers.​I walk through the wreckage, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The smoke has cleared, but the smell of it still lingers, sharp and acrid in my nostrils. My arm is wrapped in bandages, the wound from the fight still throbbing, a dull ache that pulses with every heartbeat. My face is pale. My eyes ar

​ALISTAIR'S POV:​The safe house is hidden in the mountains, a concrete bunker buried in the trees like a wound in the earth.​I stand at the edge of the clearing, my eyes fixed on the structure ahead. The building is small and square, its walls colourless and featureless, its windows dark. There are no guards outside, no signs of life, no movement at all. It looks abandoned and looks so dead.​But I know he is in there. I can feel him, the cold hatred radiating from the walls like a sickness.​The journey here was long and silent. My father drove, his good hand steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to say. We both knew what was waiting for us. The tires crunched quietly on the dirt road as we turned off the main highway, but the silence inside the car remained heavy.​Now we are here.​My father is beside me. His face is pale, his arm still wrapped in bandages.​"Alistair," he says. "I am going in with you."​I shake my head. "No

​CAMILLE'S POV:​The car pulls through the gates of Ashcroft Manor, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.​The house is beautiful. More beautiful than I remember. The damage from the attack has been repaired. The gates are new. The walls are whole in fact the house is standing as brand new.​But I know what happened here. I saw it on the news. The explosions. The gunfire. The violence and destruction. I saw the family that took me in, that protected me, that saved my daughter, fighting for their lives against the monster who was hunting me. I rested my palm against the smooth leather of the car door, watching the long driveway slowly unfurl before us.​I saw Nikolai on the television. His face was cold and empty. His eyes were hollow. He looked like a ghost, like a man who had already died and just forgot to stop moving.​He is back in prison now. Life sentence. Hard labour. He will never get out. He will never hurt anyone again.​I watched the sentencing from the penthouse where L