Todos os capítulos de My Ex-Husband's Greatest Regret: Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

Tyson I hadn't felt this kind of peace in thirty-four years of drawing breath.For as long as I could remember, waking up meant checking perimeter defenses, auditing arms shipments, and calculating which regional Alpha was planning to plant a knife between my shoulder blades. My entire existence had been built out of iron, cold stone, and bloodshed.Now, I caught myself lingering in the corridors just to hear the sound of laughter echoing from the sunlit terrace.Rosemarie was alive. Truly, brilliantly alive. The color had flooded back into her cheeks, the dark circles under her eyes had faded, and her razor-clean mind had practically revolutionized my territory's commercial veins. In just three weeks of taking executive control of Carrillo Logistics, she had systematically dismantled four redundant transit rings, squeezed the valley clans into submission, and spiked our gross empire revenue by a staggering forty percent. The woman wasn't just my mate; she was a goddamn force of natu

RosemarieMy eyes remained glued to the parchment, tracing the faded ink of my father's cursive.Arthur Wilton.Beside it, pressed into the wax, was our family's signet ring—the weeping willow. And right next to that, etched in confident strokes that hadn't changed in fifteen years, sat the signature of the man whose bed I had shared only nights ago.Tyson."Look at subsection four, darling," Victoria's voice slithered across the table, smooth and cold.She leaned forward, extending a finger tipped in burgundy polish. She tapped the paper, right over a block of legal text."Right here," she purred, that condescending smile never leaving her face. "The forfeiture clause. In the event that the Wilton bloodline is extinguished or alienated without legal execution of the territorial merger, the Carrillo Syndicate forfeits fifty percent of its eastern ore veins back to the High Sovereign Trust. Tyson's father gambled their entire eastern front on your family's land, Rosemarie. Without your

RosemarieThe fortress was dead quiet.By two in the morning, the halls had swallowed every trace of life, leaving only the distant, mournful howling of the wind against the glass.I stood in the center of the guest suite, staring at the bed. Laid out neatly across the duvet were the tokens of my gilded cage: the diamond necklace Tyson had presented after the consortium victory, three coats, the credit cards linked directly to the Carrillo treasury, and the signed shares granting me five percent of the western basin.Not a single scrap, I thought, the bitter resolve setting into my jaw like cold iron. I walked into this house with nothing, and I won't walk out carrying his price tag.I zipped the duffel bag resting on the armchair. Inside was only what I had bought with my clean, audited salary—three sweaters, two pairs of trousers, walking boots, my forged transit papers, and an envelope of cash withdrawn from a valley exchange.I pulled the strap over my shoulder and walked out into

RosemarieIt'd been two weeks since I up and left.Two weeks of salt air, squeaking floorboards, and silence so loud it made my ears ring.I rented a whitewashed cottage three miles down the shoreline from an old fishing wharf. It was drafty as hell. Every time the coastal wind kicked up off the grey water, the windowpanes rattled, and I had to wedge cardboard under the kitchen sash just to stop the drafts from blowing my matches out.No technology. No armed escorts outside my bedroom door. No nothing.Just me, worn-out sneakers, and a stack of cash-only ledgers for a marina owner named Silas who didn't ask questions as long as his diesel receipts balanced at the end of every week."Here's your sixty bucks, Violetta," Silas grunted, tossing three twenty-dollar bills onto the counter between us. He was a broad, grizzled man who permanently smelled like brine and pipe tobacco. "Check the slips for the crab boats tomorrow morning. The south pier's got two engines leaking oil.""I'll audit

TysonThree weeks without her, and the northern fortress felt less like an empire's seat and more like a mausoleum.I hadn't slept in seventy-two hours. My eyes burned like someone had rubbed crushed glass into them, and the stubble on my jaw was rough and untamed. The study had been converted into a command center—maps of three territories pinned to the walls, telemetry tracking regional highway cameras, terminals humming with data feeds.None of it meant a damn thing.Rosemarie had vanished. No credit swipes, no ATM withdrawals, no transit passes registered under Wilton, Blackwood, or any known family trust. She'd ghosted the continent using the exact blind spots she'd mapped during her own logistics audit. Every time I looked at an empty shipping corridor on the screen, her mocking voice echoed in my head.If you want to play boardroom games, find a man who actually wants you.She thought I bought her. She thought every touch, every kiss, every quiet night by the fire was just an a