All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Obsession: My Ex‑Wife Became a Queen : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The nursery was silent except for Eleanor's soft breathing. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the tiny whispers of air through her parted lips. I sat in the rocking chair, holding her against my chest, the locket warm between us. The wood creaked softly with each movement, a rhythm I had come to know in the dark hours of too many nights. The new stuffed rabbit sat on the dresser. Brown. Floppy ears. A small tag sewn into its paw with a name I did not recognize. Clara. Patricia's sister had left it. A gift. A message. A promise. I could not stop looking at it. Nathaniel stood by the window, his phone in his hand, his jaw tight. The muscles in his neck were corded. He had been on calls for an hour. Security. Police. Julian. Everyone was looking for her. No one had found her. The woman had vanished into the night like smoke, leaving only the rabbit behind. Every few minutes, he glanced at the window, at the dark trees, at the shadows between. Margaret sat in the corner, her hands

The back door is open. A crack of grey light. A whisper of cold air that cuts through the warmth of the fire. I hold Eleanor tighter, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my throat, a wild drum that will not quiet. Nathaniel is beside me, his gun raised, his body angled toward the hallway, his breath shallow. Marcus moves silently, checking the kitchen, the pantry, the stairs, his footsteps soft on the old wooden floors.The house is empty.No one is there. No footsteps. No breathing. No shadow in the corners. The curtains hang still. The fire crackles. The clock ticks. The only sound is my own heartbeat.But the door was closed. I closed it myself. I remember the click of the lock, the turn of the knob, the way I tested it twice before walking away. Someone opened it from the inside. Someone was in this house with us, watching, waiting, breathing the same air.Marcus returns. His face is tight, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the room. He says, No one. But someone was here. The gras

We drive through the dark. The roads are narrow, winding, the trees pressing close on both sides, their branches scraping the windows like grasping fingers. Marcus is behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white. Nathaniel sits in the front, his gun in his hand, his jaw tight, his gaze flicking between the rearview mirror and the dark forest outside. I sit in the back with the children, Eleanor in my arms, baby Margaret in the carrier beside me. The locket is warm against my chest, but my heart is cold, frozen by the image of that church, the candle, the scream.I keep seeing Celeste’s face. Hollow. Broken. The way she looked at me when she said she wanted one good thing before she died. I wonder if she got it. I wonder if that bullet was her good thing.Marcus glances at me in the rearview mirror. His voice is low. Celeste?I tell him I do not know. The church was dark. The shots were loud. I did not see her fall. I only heard the scream, the gunshot, then s

The ambulance takes Patricia's cousin away. The red lights flash against the grey sky, casting eerie shadows across the ruins. The sirens fade into the night, swallowed by the darkness of the trees. I stand at the edge of the ruins, the sapphire ring in my palm, the broken locket in my pocket. The ring is warm from her skin. The locket is cold, its cracked glass pressing against my thigh.Nathaniel is beside me, his arm around my waist, his body warm against the cold wind. Marcus is on the phone with Julian, his voice low, explaining what happened, who was shot, who is still alive. Margaret—the elder—sits on a fallen beam, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.I have not spoken since we climbed out of the bunker. The words are stuck in my throat, lodged somewhere between my heart and my voice. The ring is warm. The locket is cold. The photograph of Eleanor is torn, her small face ripped in half. I cannot look at it. I cannot bear to see my daughter's smile bro

The cabin is quiet. Too quiet. I sit in the rocking chair, Eleanor in my arms, the photograph of my mother on the table beside me. The wooden box is open. My mother's face smiles up at me, young and alive, frozen in a moment before the poison, before Patricia, before everything. I have not stopped looking at it. I cannot look away. Her eyes follow me around the room.Nathaniel stands by the window. He has not spoken since we returned from the cemetery. His hands are clenched at his sides, the knuckles white. His jaw is tight, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His eyes are fixed on the trees, as if he expects someone to step out of the shadows at any moment. He has not blinked in minutes.Marcus is outside, checking the perimeter again, his flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Margaret is in the kitchen, making tea that no one will drink. The kettle has boiled three times. The children are sleeping, their breathing soft and even.I watch Nathaniel. His breathing is shallow, qu