All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Obsession: My Ex‑Wife Became a Queen : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The letter sits on my kitchen counter for three days. I read it each morning, each night, as if the words will change. They do not. Patricia Preston wants access to my daughter. She wants to be grandmother to a child she tried to destroy before she was born.Marcus calls daily with updates. Nathaniel’s lawyers are fighting the petition. They have filed motions to dismiss, citing Patricia’s history of harassment, her role in the tabloid campaign, her documented schemes with Celeste. But the case will not go away overnight. In the meantime, Patricia has given interviews. She tells reporters she only wants to know her grandchild. She says I am keeping the baby from her out of spite. She says she is praying for me.I throw my phone across the room. It hits the couch and bounces to the floor. The screen does not crack. I wish it had.The baby kicks, sharp and insistent. I press my hand against her and breathe. I will not let Patricia’s poison touch her. I will not let her win.Margaret cal

The lobby of my institute is quiet at night. I stand in the center of the space, the dust cloths ghostly in the dim light, Nathaniel's footsteps still echoing in my memory. His offer hangs in the air between us, even though he is gone. Funding. Resources. Whatever I need. No strings.I do not trust it. I do not trust him.The locket is in my hand. I open it. Empty. I close it. I put it back in my pocket.I lock the building and walk home. The streets are empty, the shops closed. My reflection follows me in dark windows, a woman with a child inside her, walking alone.Marcus is waiting in my apartment. He sits at the kitchen table, a folder open in front of him. His face is hard. He does not smile when I walk in.He tells me to sit.I sit.He slides a photograph across the table. Nathaniel, leaving a hotel downtown. The time stamp on the corner is from this morning, hours before the press conference. He is not alone. A woman walks beside him, her face half-turned from the camera. She i

The mountain house is quiet in a way the city never was. No sirens, no traffic, no voices rising through thin walls. Just the wind in the trees, the creak of old timber, the soft rhythm of my own breathing. I wake each morning to grey light filtering through the east window, the cradle empty below the mobile of stars and moons, my hand already pressed against my stomach.Margaret moves through the house like a ghost. She is up before me, making tea, tending the fire, reading in the chair by the window. She does not ask if I have heard from Marcus. She does not mention Nathaniel. She gives me space to be alone, to think, to wait.On the third day, I find her in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, her eyes on the mountains. She tells me Marcus called. He is safe. He is handling the legal battle. He says to stay where I am.I ask if Patricia has found us.Margaret shakes her head. She says Nathaniel tied her up in court. Emergency hearings, injunctions, motions to dismiss

The envelope is thick, heavy, the paper expensive. It arrived this morning, slipped under my door while I was in the shower. No return address. My name handwritten in ink I do not recognize.I sit at the kitchen table with the envelope in front of me, my tea growing cold beside me, the baby kicking against my ribs. Marcus is on his way. I called him before I opened it. He told me to wait. I am waiting.The door opens. Marcus steps in, his face tight, his hand empty. He crosses to the table. He takes the envelope. He opens it.Inside, a photograph. My sonogram. The one I left in the mansion bathroom the night I walked out. The one Patricia stole, used, weaponized. It is creased now, worn at the edges, the date in the corner faded.Beneath it, a note. Patricia’s handwriting, sharp, precise. I am not finished.Marcus sets the photograph on the table. He looks at me. His jaw is tight.I pick up the sonogram. I look at the small shape, the blurred profile, the tiny hands. This was my daugh

The letter arrives on Thursday. Heavy paper, embossed seal, the hospital's letterhead stamped in gold. I open it standing in my kitchen, the morning light thin through the windows, the baby heavy against my ribs. The board of directors requests my presence at a meeting. Tomorrow. Nine in the morning. They want to discuss my position. I read the letter three times. The language is formal, careful, the kind of language people use when they are building a case they do not want to name. They are not firing me. They are not suspending me. They want to discuss. But the timing is not coincidence. Celeste appeared in the lobby three days ago. Patricia has been giving interviews from wherever she is hiding, her voice thin and wounded, claiming she only ever wanted to know her grandchild. The scandal is quiet but not dead. It has simply burrowed underground, waiting to surface again. I call Dr. Vance. She answers on the first ring, as if she was waiting. Her voice is tight, controlled. She sa