All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Obsession: My Ex‑Wife Became a Queen : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

The morning light is soft through the windows of the apartment. We are back in the city now, in the place I painted myself, the nursery I filled with color. Pale pink like dawn. Soft blue like the sky after rain. The walls hold the ghosts of late nights and whispered hopes. The institute is running. Julian manages the board. Marcus watches the doors. Nathaniel is in therapy, finally. He goes twice a week. He is trying. I see it in the way he holds Eleanor now, careful, as if she might break. I see it in the way he looks at me, searching for approval, for forgiveness, for a sign that he is not the monster he fears he has become.The nursery smells of lavender and baby powder. The mobile of stars and moons spins slowly above the crib, catching the light. I sit on the floor, cross-legged, the rug soft beneath me. Eleanor is in my lap, her weight warm and solid. She is two years old now. Her dark hair curls around her ears, soft as rabbit fur. Her eyes are the same deep brown as Nathaniel

The preschool is small, tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. The bakery smells of fresh bread and cinnamon, the scent drifting through the vents, warm and comforting. The bookstore has a window display of children's books, bright colors and smiling animals, a world of imaginary safety. The preschool's walls are painted with murals of trees and animals—a smiling sun, a blue bird, a rabbit with long ears. The teachers are young, kind, patient. We chose it because it felt safe. Because the windows were not too large. Because the doors had locks that Marcus approved. Because the playground was surrounded by a high fence with no gaps. I walked the perimeter myself, checking every corner, every latch, every possible weakness.Today is Eleanor's first day.I stand at the window of the observation room, a small room with a one-way mirror, watching her explore the blocks on the floor. She is wearing a blue dress, the one Margaret bought her, with tiny white flowers embroidered on the hem.

The dining room is too small for the six of us, but Margaret insisted. She said we needed to pretend, for one night, that we were a normal family. I heard the plea beneath her words. Let me have this. Let me pretend that my grandson is not falling apart, that my great-granddaughter is not being hunted.Nathaniel sits at the head of the table, Eleanor in the high chair beside him. He has not touched his wine. He has barely looked at his plate. The fork lies unused beside his hand. I sit across from Julian, who has been quiet all evening, his usual guarded calm replaced by something heavier. Marcus is at the end, his plate untouched, his eyes on the windows. Margaret serves the soup. Her hands are steady, but I see the tremor in her fingers, the slight wobble of the ladle.No one speaks. The only sound is Eleanor's humming and the clink of spoons against porcelain.Julian sets down his spoon. The police found another burner phone. Same area. Same tower. They are no closer.Nathaniel's j

The car is silent on the drive home. Eleanor sleeps, her head lolling against the car seat, Hop the rabbit tucked under her arm. Nathaniel stares out the window, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the blur of trees and buildings. I hold the phone in my lap, the photograph still glowing—the park, the trees, my daughter in a stranger's frame.Marcus glances in the rearview mirror. You okay back there?No, I say.Figured. He taps the wheel. I have people sweeping the park. They won't find anything.They never do.This time will be different.You said that last time.He doesn't answer. The silence stretches, thick with the weight of too many failures.Julian calls. I answer.I have news. Not good.Say it anyway.The rose and the ribbon were analyzed. No prints. No DNA. But the ribbon came from a specialty shop. One that keeps records. I have a name.Who?The shop would not give it directly. But my people traced the purchase to a corporate account. Vance Industries.My blood runs cold. That

The private jet cuts through the clouds. Grey dawn light spills through the small windows, casting pale rectangles on the leather seats. Eleanor sleeps in my arms, her face pressed against my chest, Hop the rabbit tucked under her arm. Her breathing is soft, even. Every few minutes, she sighs in her sleep, and I hold her tighter.Nathaniel sits across from me, his jaw tight, his hand resting on the gun at his belt. He has not slept. His eyes are red, scanning the cabin, the windows, the door. Julian is on his phone, speaking in rapid French, his voice low and urgent. He has been on the phone since we took off, calling contacts, calling favors, calling in debts.Marcus watches the cabin door. His hand is on his own weapon. The flight attendant has stopped offering coffee. No one is eating. No one is talking.Switzerland is three hours away. Geneva. The hotel near the lake. The woman with dark eyes waiting.My phone buzzes. The sound is sharp in the quiet cabin. I pull it from my pocket