All Chapters of From Ex-wife to his Uncle's Obsession : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

(Author’s POV) Tiziana stared at the orange Hermès bag sitting on the desk, untouched and rejected. A sharp wave of disbelief surged through her, followed closely by irritation that settled deep in her chest. How dare this woman refuse her, and worse, do it in front of an audience like this. She did not even bother sparing Ms. Kim a glance. Instead, she lowered her gaze to her freshly manicured nails, slowly inspecting the flawless French tips as though nothing else in the room mattered. “Ms. Kim,” she said at last, her voice smooth but dripping with quiet condescension, “unless this building is on fire, I don’t see why you are wasting my time like this.” The air in the small office grew heavy, thick with tension. One of the mothers, dressed in a beige trench coat, stepped forward. Her face was flushed, her anger barely contained. “Excuse me?” she snapped. “Your daughter has been bullying other girls for weeks. And today, because of her lie, almost the entire class missed their

(Author’s POV) Stefano Conti was jerked awake by the harsh ringing of his phone. The digital clock read 5:00 AM, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest. Only a disaster of serious magnitude could justify a call at such an hour. He grabbed his phone, his expression darkening when he saw it was his PR Director. The man’s voice trembled through the line. “Mr. Conti, you need to check X. Now.” “What is it?” Stefano demanded, already sitting upright. “It’s a bribery scandal involving Miss Bianca Conti’s preschool. The hashtags #ContiEntitlement and #VittoriaCrownCorruption have been trending all night.” Stefano opened his tablet, and whatever remained of his sleep vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, controlled fury. The internet was merciless. Someone had leaked an audio recording of Tiziana at the school. Her voice rang out clearly, arrogant and sharp. “My time is billed by the minute… Conti family funding.” Stefano’s jaw tightened painfully. Tiziana had no idea the kind

(Celeste Moretti’s POV) Vincenzo’s low, magnetic voice echoed through the boutique, dripping with undisguised mockery. “Little girl, where are your manners?” The air in the shop seemed to freeze. I stared at him in shock, my hand instinctively clutching the neckline of the dress. I never expected to see him here, of all places. Stefano and Tiziana looked at him, their expressions shifting from annoyance to wariness. The man standing before them exuded a suffocating pressure, an aura of absolute command that did not match his simple action of holding a suit jacket. Because Vincenzo had been managing the overseas markets for years and had only recently returned to Los Angeles to take the helm of Vitale Group International, very few people outside the core board of directors knew his face. To Stefano and Tiziana, he was just an arrogant stranger interfering in their business. They had no idea they were glaring at the supreme ruler of their own family tree, the man whose name alone

(Celeste’s POV) I didn’t want to play along, but I had absolutely no choice. A few yards away, around the blind corner of the terrace, the wet, sloppy sounds of kissing and heavy, desperate breathing echoed through the night air. It was excruciating. My ears burned. The intrusion was so clear, so intimate, that a wave of sharp discomfort mixed with irritation washed over me. I was trapped in the dark with a stranger, listening to his brother cheat on his wife. I tried to lift my head, pressing my hands lightly against the solid wall of muscle in front of me. We were too close, far beyond the boundaries of social comfort. Our bodies were pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Just as I shifted, a large, warm hand clamped onto the back of my head. Vincenzo was dominant. He forced my face back against his broad, hard chest. The scent of cold cedarwood filled my nose, mixed with the faint trace of tobacco lingering in the night air. I usually detested men who smoked.

Celeste's POV "I’ve called a car," I lied to a concerned doorman to avoid questions. But when I checked my app, the screen mocked me. No cars available. We were halfway up a hill in an exclusive residential zone. Rideshares were non-existent. A gust of wind swept through the canyon, cutting right through the thin fabric of my evening gown. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself, regretting leaving my coat in Carmelita’s car. Just as I was debating the insanity of walking down the hill in heels, a sleek black Bentley Mulsanne glided out of the shadows. It pulled up right beside me. The rear window rolled down silently. Vincenzo Conti sat there, his profile sharp against the dark leather interior. He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable. "Get in," he said. "I’ll see you home." My instinct was to refuse. He was dangerous, and our earlier encounter on the terrace was still too fresh in my mind. "I’m fine, thank you," I began. "Consider it a thank you for your coop