All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Obsession: My Ex‑Wife Became a Queen : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The drive takes six hours. Marcus is behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the dark road, his jaw tight, his knuckles white. I sit in the passenger seat, the locket around my neck, the folded address in my hand. Nathaniel is back at the hospital, sedated, his arm healing, his face pale against the white pillow. Eleanor is with Margaret, surrounded by guards, sleeping in her portable crib, unaware that her mother is driving toward danger. Julian is coordinating from the city, his voice crackling over the radio every hour with updates. I am going alone. Not entirely alone. Marcus is with me. Julian's team is ahead, scouting the house in the mountains, hidden in the trees, their night-vision goggles scanning the windows. But I am the one walking through the door. Patricia wants me. She will not hurt the baby until I arrive. The baby is bait. I am the catch. The road narrows. The pavement turns to gravel. The trees close in, their branches reaching across the sky like grasping fingers. T

The conference room is packed. Cameras line the back wall, their red lights blinking like a row of watching eyes. Reporters fill every chair, notebooks open, phones recording, pens tapping against legal pads. The hum of conversation is low, expectant, the way a crowd sounds before something important happens. I stand behind the podium, the locket hidden beneath my blouse, its weight warm against my chest. Eleanor and Margaret are safe at home with Nathaniel's grandmother Margaret and a full team of guards. Nathaniel is in the back of the room, his arm still in a sling, his eyes scanning the crowd, every reporter, every cameraman, every exit.Julian organized this. He said the institute needs a public face. Someone to speak for the children. Someone to remind the world why we exist. He did not say that I need to counter the rumors about Patricia, about the Sterling name, about the woman who married into a family of murderers. But I know. The tabloids have been circling. The news anchor

The envelope arrives on a Tuesday. Plain white, no return address, my name handwritten in block letters so neat they look printed. I find it on the kitchen table of the safe house, tucked beneath the sugar bowl where Margaret keeps the sweetener. No one saw who left it. The cameras did not catch anyone. The guards saw nothing. It simply appeared, as if delivered by a ghost.I stand at the table for a long moment, staring at the envelope. The morning light is thin through the windows, grey and cold, the kind of light that makes everything look washed out and tired. Eleanor is in the nursery with Nathaniel, who is learning to change a diaper one-handed. Baby Margaret is asleep in her crib. The house is quiet except for the tick of the clock on the wall and the distant hum of the refrigerator.I pick up the envelope. It is heavier than I expected. Thick. My name is the only writing on it. No stamp. No postmark. Someone placed it here by hand, in the night, while we slept. The thought mak

The satellite phone feels heavy in my hand. Julian’s voice is still in my ear, the words echoing. Volkov is flying to Geneva. Our people will follow. I hang up. The cabin is dark except for the fire. Nathaniel sits across from me, his face half in shadow, the flames casting flickering shapes on the walls. Baby Margaret sleeps in the portable crib. Eleanor is in the loft with Margaret, who insisted on staying with both children tonight.Nathaniel asks what Julian said.I tell him about Volkov. About Geneva. About the guard who confessed to helping Celeste escape.Nathaniel stands. He walks to the window. The glass reflects the flames, the dark trees outside. He says we cannot wait for Julian’s people to follow Volkov. He will disappear. They always do. We need to act now. We need to expose Celeste before she disappears again. Before she takes the baby somewhere we cannot find.I ask how.He turns. His eyes are hard, determined, the rage from last night still simmering but now channeled

The cabin is quiet. Too quiet. I sit at the kitchen table, the satellite phone in front of me, the photograph of Harold Crane and Patricia’s friend still burning in my memory. Switzerland. The clinic. The frozen eggs. Patricia’s plans that outlived her. She is dead, but her allies are not. They are gathering, plotting, waiting.Nathaniel paces behind me, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. His arm is still in a sling, but he moves like a man who has forgotten the pain. He wants to go. He wants to leave tonight. He wants to fly to Switzerland, confront Crane, and end this once and for all. I see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes.Marcus sits across from me. His face is hard, his eyes tired, dark circles underneath. He has been staring at the photograph for five minutes without speaking, his coffee growing cold beside him. The fire crackles in the wood stove. The shadows dance on the walls.Finally, he says, You cannot go to Switzerland.Nathaniel stops pacing. His boo