All Chapters of My Billionaire Ex- Husband’s Nemesis : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

ARIA'S POVBy mid-January, the snow had settled into a dense, crystalline crust that held our weight if we stepped lightly.The silence in the valley was no longer the heavy, expectant quiet of people waiting for a threat to materialize over the ridge. It had become structural, a quiet built out of three feet of packed drift, the steady creak of settled timbers, and the rhythmic clack-clack of Maya’s wooden loom in the sunroom.In the kitchen, the air was hot and dense with the smell of toasted caraway, rye flour, and yeast.Elizabeth Vance stood at the head of the long oak table, her sleeves pinned back above her elbows with wooden pegs. Her forearms, pale and surprisingly strong, were dusted in white flour as she worked a twenty-pound trough of sourdough. The former chief compliance officer approached breadmaking with the exact same unyielding rigor she had once applied to cross-border capital audits: timing the double-rise down to the second on an old brass pocket watch resting

ARIA'S POVThe mud dried in five days under a bright, relentless April sun that smelled of wild garlic and wet slate.By the following Thursday, the lower valley road impassable since the mid-March thaw had turned from a thick, black porridge into a firm, pale ribbon of rutted earth. The mountain gap was officially open. For four months, the snow had provided a clean, absolute boundary, wrapping the estate in an impenetrable cocoon where time moved only by the burning of birch logs and the rising of sourdough. Now, the disappearance of the white drift felt less like a relief and more like the raising of a curtain.Down at the lower archway, Julian and Theo were rehanging the copper gate.They weren't locking it, nor were they installing a new latch mechanism to replace the one that had rusted solid three winters ago. They were simply resetting the lower iron pivot into its granite socket so the heavy leaf wouldn't drag against the roadbed when the wind blew up from the south."It s

ARIA'S POVBy late August, the apple blossoms had turned into heavy, dark green fruit that weighed down the lower branches until they nearly touched the high grass.The valley was quiet in the golden, lazy way of late summer, when the heat hangs motionless over the slate roofs and the mountain stream slows to a trickle over the smooth river stones. There was no urgency in the work anymore just the steady, comfortable rhythm of picking early plums, mending the stone terrace walls, and drying lavender bundles along the porch rafters.Down by the lower gate, Silas sat on the stone wall with a sketchpad across his knees. He was drawing the copper gate, capturing the dark green patina where the rain had washed down the iron frame, and the pale gravel path stretching beyond it into the hazes of the lower valley.He stopped his pencil mid-stroke.It wasn't a chime, nor was it the heavy squeak of the mail courier's three-speed bicycle. It was simply the soft, dry crunch of boots on loose st

ARIA'S POVThe east pitch of the south cottage roof was steep enough to demand respect, but the timber framing beneath the slate felt like bedrock.By three o'clock, the high sun had baked the fresh cedar shingles until the air above the rafters smelled sweet, sharp, and resinous. David sat straddling the ridge beam with a short wooden mallet in his right hand and a handful of copper nails held lightly between his teeth.Below him, Julian worked the lower course, setting each shingle with two measured taps. Tink-tink. Tink-tink."You're driving them too deep," Julian said without looking up, his thumb tracing the grain of the cedar board he had just laid. "If you crush the fiber, the winter frost gets into the ring and splits it by February. Tap it until the copper sits flush with the surface, no further."David took the nail from his mouth, positioning it carefully over the pale wood. He brought the mallet down once a hesitant, light stroke and then once more until the broad head

ARIA'S POV By the time the autumn rain returned, the valley had forgotten how to count its years. It came in from the west over the granite wall. a fine, cold mist that turned into an unbroken, gray curtain by mid-afternoon. The smell of wet slate, fallen oak leaves, and woodsmoke rose from every corner of the courtyard, wrapping the estate in a quiet density and more like an old blanket being pulled over familiar shoulders. Inside the kitchen, the iron stove roared softly against the chill. David sat at the corner of the long table, an iron kettle steaming beside his hand. He was no longer using the razor-sharp drawknife or the mallet; he was using an old linen cloth to rub linseed oil into a set of small wooden bowls he had turned for the pantries. His hands moved with an easy, rhythmic cadence no longer nervous, no longer checking the doorway at every sudden sound. "The wind’s coming out of the north gap," Kat remarked, stepping into the kitchen and stamping her heav