All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Obsession: My Ex‑Wife Became a Queen : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

The morning light is soft through the nursery windows. Pale gold, filtered through the white curtains, falling in gentle rectangles on the rug where Eleanor plays. She sits among her blocks, stacking them carefully, knocking them down, laughing each time they fall. The sound is pure, untouched by the fear that has lived in this house for months. She hums the old melody, the one Margaret used to hum, the one that has been in Nathaniel's family for generations. Her voice is high and sweet.The locket is around my neck. The crack is still there, a thin line across the glass, but the photograph is whole. My mother smiles at me from inside the gold, her face young and alive, frozen in a garden full of roses. I touch the glass. It is warm from my skin.Nathaniel is in the kitchen, making coffee. The scent drifts through the apartment, rich and dark, a small comfort. Marcus is at the door, his eyes on the street, his hand resting on his gun. Julian is on his way, driving across the city to c

The phone rings at three in the morning. The sound slices through the darkness, sharp and insistent, pulling me from the edge of sleep. I am already awake, sitting in the rocking chair, Eleanor in my arms. She sleeps, her face soft, her lips parted, her small hand curled around the chain of the locket. The locket is warm against my chest. The apartment is dark except for the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows on the walls.Nathaniel sleeps on the couch, his gun on the table beside him, his hand resting on the grip even in sleep. He has not slept through the night in weeks. Neither have I. The weight of the past months sits on both of us like a stone.I answer. Dr. Vance.Her voice is tight, strained, the voice of someone who has been awake for hours, who has seen something she wishes she had not. There has been an accident. At the institute. A fire in the research wing. Two people are injured. One is critical.I stand. Eleanor stirs. She

The headlines hit the morning after the fire. I see them before I open my eyes, before I even reach for my phone. The light is grey, thin, pressing through the curtains. Nathaniel is already awake, sitting on the edge of the couch, his phone in his hand, his face pale. He has been reading for hours. The shadows under his eyes are deep.Institute in Flames: Terrorist Attack or Inside Job? Dr. Victoria Preston's Dark Past Catches Up. Preston Family Feud Turns Deadly. Where Was Her Husband? New Evidence Links Doctor to Family Conspiracy. Sources Say Dr. Preston Knew About the Fire.I stand in the kitchen, the newspaper spread across the table. The ink is black, the letters bold, the accusations sharp. My hands are flat on the paper. The headlines stare back at me. The locket is around my neck, warm against my chest. The photograph of my mother watches from the wall, her smile frozen, her eyes full of something I cannot name. Eleanor plays in the nursery. I hear her blocks fall. She laugh

The ring is in the box. The box is in Nathaniel's pocket. The proposal hangs between us like a question I have not answered, a door I have not opened, a wound I have not let heal. He has not asked again. He has not pushed. He has waited. Three days. Seventy-two hours. I have counted every one of them, marked every sunrise and sunset, watched the light change across the nursery walls.I sit in the rocking chair, Eleanor in my arms, the locket around my neck. The mobile of stars and moons spins slowly above her crib, catching the pale morning light, scattering tiny shadows on the walls. The clock on the wall ticks. Each second taps against the silence, against my chest, against the weight of the words I have not said.Nathaniel is in the kitchen. I hear him moving, opening cabinets, closing them. The kettle whistles. He does not pour. He is not making coffee. He is just moving, pacing, opening and closing, as if movement itself might quiet the thoughts in his head, might drown out the q

The private investigator arrives at dawn. The sky is grey, the clouds low, the rain finally stopped after three days of falling. His name is David Cross. He is tall, thin, with grey hair and tired eyes that have seen too much over thirty years of hunting people who do not want to be found. He carries a leather satchel worn smooth from years of use and a metal detector that looks older than he is. He does not smile. He does not shake hands. He stands in the doorway and waits, his eyes scanning the hallway, the stairs, the shadows. Nathaniel meets him at the door. They speak in low voices. I sit in the nursery, Eleanor in my arms, the locket around my neck. The mobile of stars and moons spins slowly above her crib. Eleanor sleeps. Her breathing is soft, even. She does not know that a stranger is in her home. She does not know that someone has been watching her from the shadows. David Cross walks through the apartment. He looks at the windows, the doors, the locks. He examines the fire