All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Obsession: My Ex‑Wife Became a Queen : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The tabloids are relentless. I see them at the grocery store, at the newsstand, on my phone, on the television in the waiting room at the doctor's office. Dr. Victoria Preston Engaged to Ex-Husband Nathaniel Preston. Second Chance Romance or Calculated Move? Preston Heiress to Wed Again. Is She Crazy or Just Desperate? Family Insiders Say Marriage is a PR Stunt. Sources Claim Prenup Includes Custody Clause. I stand in the kitchen, the newspaper spread across the table. The photograph is from the gala. Nathaniel's hand is on my back. My head is tilted toward his. We look like we are in love. We are in love. But the headlines make it sound like a transaction, like a merger, like a business deal between two companies trying to save their stock prices. The comments below the articles are worse. Strangers writing about my daughter, my marriage, my life. Strangers who have never met me, who do not know me, who do not care about the truth. They call me a gold digger. They call him a murdere

The courthouse steps are crowded with reporters. Cameras flash, a wall of white light that blinds me for a moment. Microphones are thrust toward me as Nathaniel and I walk toward the entrance. I keep my head down. My hand is in his. Marcus clears a path, his shoulders broad, his voice sharp. He pushes through the crowd, parting it like water. His hand is on his gun, hidden under his jacket.No comment. Move aside. No comment. I said no comment.Evelyn's trial is the final act. The evidence has been presented. The witnesses have testified. The jury will deliberate, and then we will know. Then we will be free. Or we will not. The weight of it presses on my chest like a stone. I have not slept in days. Neither has Nathaniel.The courtroom is cold, the same room where Patricia's sister was arraigned, where Celeste gave her deposition, where I sat across from Evelyn in the interrogation room. The wood is dark, polished to a high shine. The ceilings are high, with ornate moldings that have

The letter arrives on a Tuesday. Heavy cream paper, embossed with the Preston family crest in gold. The same crest that was on Patricia's wedding invitations, on the mansion's stationery, on the will that left me my mother's money after Patricia stole it. I open it with shaking hands, standing in the kitchen while Eleanor plays in the nursery. The paper is thick, expensive. The ink is black. The handwriting is Margaret's, but shaky, as if her hand could not hold the pen steady. Victoria, I am dying. The doctors say I have weeks, maybe days. I wanted you to hear it from me before you read it in the papers. I did not want you to find out from a stranger. I did not want you to read about my death in a tabloid. I know you have not forgiven me. I do not ask for forgiveness. I ask only that you come to see me. One last time. I am at St. Mary's Hospice. Room 112. I will be here until the end. There are things I need to tell you. Things about Patricia. About Evelyn. About the woman who is

The morning light is grey through the windows of the apartment. Thin and cold, the kind of light that makes everything look washed out and tired. I sit at the kitchen table, the locket around my neck, the deed to the French house in my hand. The paper is heavy, embossed, official. Patricia's name is on it. Patricia's signature. Patricia's final attempt to reach across the grave. Her last gift. Her last manipulation. Her last attempt to control from beyond.Nathaniel stands by the window, looking out at the street. His hands are in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. He has been standing there for an hour, watching the trees, the cars, the empty sidewalk. Every few seconds, he glances at the fire escape, at the building across the street, at the shadows between the parked cars. His hand keeps going to his gun, then dropping back to his side. Eleanor plays in the nursery, the sound of her blocks drifting through the open door, the soft thud of wood on wood, her small voice humming the

The morning light is soft through the windows of the apartment. Pale gold, filtered through the white curtains, falling in gentle rectangles on the polished floor. The dust motes dance in the light. I sit on the couch, Eleanor in my arms, the locket around my neck. The mobile of stars and moons is gone from the nursery, packed in a box in the basement, taped shut, labeled with a black marker. Patricia's things. The words are stark, final. The walls are bare. The crib is empty. The rocking chair is pushed into the corner, facing the wall. I could not look at it anymore. I could not sit in that room without seeing her shadow on the wall, without hearing her voice, without feeling the cold.Nathaniel is in the kitchen, making coffee. The scent drifts through the rooms, rich and dark, mixing with the smell of the oatmeal he made for Eleanor. Marcus is at the door, his hand on his gun, his eyes on the street, on the fire escape, on the building across the road. He has not relaxed in weeks.