All Chapters of The Billionaire's Ex-wife Is His Boss: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Melowie A quiet knock echoed from the front hallway. Beatrice opened the door, stepped aside, and allowed Noel into the sunroom. He stopped three paces from the table, his blue eyes searching my face with a terrifying, breathless vulnerability. He was waiting for the ax to fall. He was expecting me to tell him that yesterday’s failed visit was the end. "Sit down, Noel," I offered quietly. He moved immediately, pulling out the chair across from me. He sat stiffly, his large hands resting flat on the dark wood, his knuckles white with tension. He didn't ask for water. He didn't speak a single word. He just waited, completely at my mercy. "I overheard Nolan last night," I said, my voice dangerously steady, though my heart was thrashing against my ribs. Noel’s breath caught in his throat. His chest lifted in a sharp, desperate surge, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated terror. "Melowie... I'm sorry about the... I swear to God I didn't mean to scare him—" "He asked if you were

NoelUnder the dim golden light of the desk lamp in the Varess estate, three spiral notebooks lay open beside a stack of pediatric development manuals and handwritten notes. I had spent seventy-two hours dissecting my son like a complex multi-billion-franc merger. Every tiny detail Melowie had casually dropped over the years, every fragment of information Nathan had spat at me in the rain, every observation I had managed to snatch during my fleeting visits—I recorded all of it. My hands were raw, my eyes bloodshot, my body operating on pure adrenaline and coffee. None of my usual tools worked here. I couldn't deploy a team of analysts to smooth over a mistake. I couldn't draft a non-disclosure agreement to mitigate a bad reaction. Money, power, family legacy—the entire apparatus of the Varess empire was utterly useless against a three-year-old boy who didn't care about balance sheets. I picked up a pen, my hand trembling slightly as I added one final line in the margin of my note

Noel "Sit down, Noel," George stated smoothly. His voice carried that familiar, polished cadence—the practiced warmth he used when delivering terrible news to a board of directors. I didn't sit. I stayed standing by the edge of the fireplace, my coat still damp, my hands buried deep inside my trousers pockets. My fingers were locked tight around the hard edges of my son's wooden truck, my thumbnail digging into the cracked wheel until my skin throbbed. "I don't have much time, Father," I replied, my voice hoarse and raw from the rain and days of silent agony. "The arbitration is tomorrow morning. If you summoned me to review the proxy distributions again—" "This isn't about the proxy distributions," George interrupted gently, setting the pen down onto a leather blotter with a faint, deliberate click. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his cool grey eyes fixing on mine with a calm, paternal concern that made my stomach turn into a tight, si

Melowie The silence inside Beatrice’s library felt different tonight. For the first time in three agonizing years, Noel and I sat across from each other as two human beings trying to piece together the shattered glass of a life we had both ruined. He sat with his elbows resting on the table, his fingers clasped tight, his dark hair slightly disheveled. The sharp, untouchable corporate magnate was entirely gone. In his place was a father who had spent the last forty-eight hours staring into the abyss of his own failures—a man who had learned the hard way that love could not be calculated on a spreadsheet. "He likes the crusts cut off his bread," I said quietly, my voice breaking the silence like a dropped feather. "He won't eat the crusts, Noel. Not because he's stubborn, but because the texture makes him gag." Noel lifted his head. His ice-blue eyes were shot through with red thread, heavy with exhaustion, but when he looked at me, there was a quiet, desperate reverence in his g

Noel Melowie paced the length of the Persian rug, her long camel coat still damp from the preschool pickup, her shoulders set in a line so rigid it looked painful. She hadn't sat down since she walked through the door. She hadn't taken off her scarf. Every breath she pulled into her lungs was short, jagged, and terrified. "Melowie, talk to me," I said softly, stepping toward her from the edge of the doorway, keeping my hands visible, my voice measured and low. "Gideon told me there was a photographer outside Saint-Gothard. He said it was handled." She spun on her heel, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, wild, animal panic that made my heart freeze in my chest. "Handled?" she echoed, her voice trembling on a high, razor-sharp edge. "It was handled, Noel? A photographer had a telephoto lens trained on my three-year-old son's face! Five seconds later, his face is on the front page of every tabloid from here down to Paris! Do you have any idea what that means?!" "I know," I choked