All Chapters of Mira Regret's Her Heartless Billionaire Ex: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

DAMIENHe found out about the hospital complaint on a Thursday, which was two days after Mira had told him about it and one day after he had finished being quietly and thoroughly angry about it.He had not told her he was angry. She had called from the car park with the calm precision she brought to difficult information, describing the meeting with the director in the same register she used for clinical briefings: factual, sequential, complete. He had listened without interrupting. He had said the things that were true and useful. He had ended the call and sat in his study for a long time without moving.Then he had made some enquiries.The enquiries confirmed what he had suspected from the moment she described the informal accounts and their careful, institutional language. The information had originated from a source with access to Mira's professional schedule, knowledge of her arrangement with his household, and motivation to damage her standing. The source had chosen the hospi

MIRANathan arrived on a Friday without warning, which I was beginning to understand was simply how Nathan operated: appearing when he had decided to appear, carrying the easy confidence of a man who had never in his life needed to call ahead because rooms tended to rearrange themselves around him without requiring notice.I was in the entrance hall when he came through the door, having just finished Mr Davis's morning check and being on my way out. He stopped when he saw me. His face did the thing it did when he encountered information he considered significant: a brief, complete stillness, followed by something that in a less composed man would have been a grin."So," he said."Good morning, Nathan," I said."Good morning." He set his bag down on the hall table with the ease of a man leaving his things in a place that had always been available to him. "He called me on Wednesday.""Did he.""He did not say very much. He said: it has happened. I said: finally. He said: yes. That was

MIRAMr Davis asked me something on a Tuesday that I had been expecting and had not quite prepared for, which was characteristic of him. He had a talent for timing his most significant observations for the moments when you had lowered your guard just far enough to receive them without the usual defences in place.We had finished the morning readings. His numbers were excellent across the board, the best sustained run since I had taken over his care, which I had told him with genuine satisfaction and which he had received with the composed acknowledgment of a man who considered good health an obligation rather than a gift. He had been reading when I came in and returned to reading when I finished, and the room had the comfortable quiet of a space inhabited long enough to have a settled character.I was writing up the chart notes at the small desk in the corner when he spoke."Did you love him," he said. "When you were young."I looked up. He was behind the newspaper, as was his custo

MIRAThe journalist found me on a Wednesday, thirteen days after the fractures conversation and four days after the bottle of Burgundy we had left outside Mr Davis's door with a note that said only: for services rendered, which he had received without comment and which appeared, opened and half-finished, on his side table the following morning.I was at the hospital. He was waiting outside the staff entrance when I came out at the end of my afternoon clinic, which told me he had done his research: the staff entrance, not the main one, which suggested someone had given him information about my schedule that was not available to the general public.He was young, younger than I expected, with the alertness of someone who had convinced themselves that whatever they were doing was important enough to justify however they were doing it. He introduced himself with the name of a publication I recognised as one that treated the private lives of wealthy people as public property and the people

MIRAHe appeared at the door of the hospital at twenty past eight on a Friday evening, which was not something he had ever done before and which I registered, when the nurse told me someone was asking for me in the foyer, with a quality of attention different from the usual clinical alertness of a late shift.I had been on since two. The evening had been unremarkable: steady, nothing escalating past what was manageable. I had two patients I was watching carefully and three I was satisfied with and one, a sixty-year-old woman named Mrs Adeyemi admitted four days earlier, whose numbers had been doing something in the past hour I did not love but had not yet decided required escalation.I told the nurse I would be five minutes.He was standing in the foyer near the main desk, not sitting. He was in his work clothes, jacket still on, with the look of a man who had come from somewhere else without stopping to change.He saw me when I came through the corridor doors and something shifted in