All Chapters of My Husband Chose His Ex When I Was pregnant: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Elena’s POVThe air inside the private executive dining suite on the eighty-fifth floor was crisp and smelled of roast espresso, cedar, and fresh autumn rain.Outside the soaring glass panels, the late afternoon sun was dipping behind the Hudson, casting a long, amber glare across the rooftops of Midtown Manhattan. Below, the city’s concrete avenues stretched toward the harbor in dark, clean lines—a towering grid of financial houses, shipping offices, and commercial real estate operating under the quiet, frictionless oversight of our master core.On my desk sat the finalized executive summary for the upcoming fiscal year. Bound in smooth black leather with a discreet silver foil stamp, it contained no speculative projections or high-stakes gamble strategies. Every line item, from freight allocation margins to secondary bandwidth leasing rates, had been calculated to six decimal places of mathematical certainty.Julian walked into the study, his movements quiet, smooth, and measured. H

Elena’s POVThe conference room on the eighty-fourth floor did not feature panoramic vistas of the Atlantic horizon or dramatic recessed lighting. It was a functional, heavy-duty workspace built for endurance: sound-insulated acoustic wall panels, rows of black leather swivel chairs, a long slate-grey table equipped with integrated pop-up power outlets, and a large digital white board that currently displayed a dense spread of supply-chain logistics spreadsheets.The air in the room was thick with the scent of dark roast coffee, stale bagels, and the sharp lingering smell of whiteboard markers.Seated around the table were twelve men and four women—the regional operational directors of Vance Global’s Eastern Seaboard distribution hubs. These weren't corporate theorists or private banking heirs. These were hard-nosed logistics veterans recruited straight out of maritime yards, freight rail dispatch centers, and air-cargo hubs. They wore tailored suits, but their shirt collars were slig

Elena’s POVThe transition from the cold, diesel-scented mud of the Newark terminal to the warm, quiet interior of the Lincoln Tunnel was instantaneous, marked only by the smooth drop in tire noise as the armored SUV met the damp asphalt beneath the Hudson.By one in the afternoon, we were back on the eighty-fifth floor.The rain had slacked off into a fine, drifting mist that clung to the outer pane of the corner suite, blurring the sharp edges of the Midtown towers into towering grey shadows. Inside, the heat hummed softly through the floor vents, bringing with it the familiar scents of old paper, polished teak, and steaming black tea.I removed my heavy charcoal trench coat, handing it to Marcus, and stepped behind my desk.On the center blotter lay three printed financial ledgers bound in blue leather—the Q3 final reconciliation reports from our primary clearing house on Wall Street, freshly hand-delivered by courier while we were in Jersey.Julian sat in the leather armchair acro

Elena’s POVThe Gulf Coast integration did not begin with speeches in hotel ballrooms or press conferences on the river levees. It began at four in the morning inside a windowless operations office at the Barbours Cut Container Terminal in La Porte, Texas.The air in the terminal control room was cold, smelling of stale chicory coffee, damp sea salt, and the sharp metallic tang of ozone from high-voltage transformer banks. Through the reinforced plate-glass bay window, the vast, floodlit yard stretched toward the foggy waters of the Houston Ship Channel. Massive ship-to-shore gantry cranes—towering steel structures painted deep industrial blue—loomed over the dark hulls of three fully laden container vessels.I stood by the central monitoring console, dressed in a tailored charcoal wool trousersuit, my dark coat draped over a spare chair, my dark leather gloves pulled snug over my hands.Beside me stood Sarah Lin, whom I had temporarily reassigned from Baltimore to oversee the Souther

Elena’s POVThe acquisition of the Heartland Agricultural Logistics Trust in Chicago was executed not on the trading floor of the Board of Trade, but in a private, wood-paneled conference room on the fortieth floor of a stone tower overlooking a frozen Lake Michigan.At eight in the morning, the wind howling off the ice-bound lake battered the glass with a high, whistling tone. Inside, the room was stiflingly warm, smelling of dark roast coffee, stale pastries, and the sharp, defensive sweat of six elderly trustees who had spent thirty years collecting management fees off Midwestern grain elevators.I sat at the end of the long mahogany table, wearing a sharply cut navy suit, my hands resting flat against my leather folder. Julian sat at my right, his glasses on, systematically flipping through a thirty-page audit binder. Marcus stood silently by the door, his posture broad and motionless.Across from us sat Arthur Pendelton Sr.—no relation to Pendelton in Houston, but an old-line Chi