Lahat ng Kabanata ng THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORGOTTEN WIFE: My Husband's Redemption: Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 110

NATHANIELThe tapes are proving much harder to face than I thought they would be.I imagined organized footage, clearly labeled files, maybe even a timestamp that would guide me straight to the moment I was looking for, but instead I received chaos.The footage is tangled together across dozens of files, each one hours long, recorded from multiple cameras that overlap and loop back into one another.So I have been forced to go through them one by one. Frame by frame. Hour by hour. Today is the third day.Empty coffee cups now crowd the corner of my desk, and the muscles at the back of my neck ache from hours of leaning toward the screen.I drag a tired hand across my face and stare at the paused footage in front of me.The temptation to stop presses heavily against my chest. To close the laptop and shut the tapes back inside the box. To leave the past exactly where it has been for the last six years.My hand moves again before the thought fully settles, reaching for the next tape in t

BETTYIt has been days, and I still cannot get Rhys’s words out of my head.They loop endlessly, repeating themselves at the most inconvenient moments, slipping into my thoughts when I am working, when I am driving, even when I am trying to sleep.“You are a shareholder at Blackwell Enterprises.”“They are still yours even after the divorce.”“And knowing my family, they would do anything to get them back.”“You could trade them for Grace.”I press my lips together as I stare down at the condensation forming on the outside of my glass, my fingers tracing the faint line of water that drips slowly onto the table.He handed me a solution. A way out. A way to fight back. And yet, for some reason I cannot fully explain, I have not been able to act on it.I lean back slightly in my chair, my mind circling the same questions it has been asking for days.Is it because Grace is a Blackwell, and making a move like that could affect her future in ways I cannot predict? Or is it because of Harrie

NATHANIEL.Trent Prescott. An unremarkable name for an even more unremarkable man.Age thirty-eight. Divorced. No children. Owner of a failing garage and a gas station that looks like it should have been shut down years ago.A couple of arrests for drunk driving and speeding, nothing major, just enough to tell me exactly the kind of man he is.Careless. Desperate. Cheap.I stare down at the file resting on my lap, my thumb pressing against the edge hard enough to bend the paper slightly.It took the private investigator three days to find him. Three days to dig through whatever pathetic life this man has built for himself and hand me everything I needed, including an address.I am parked across the road, my engine off, my eyes fixed on the gas station in front of me.It looks abandoned. The paint on the walls is chipped and fading, the signage is barely hanging on, and the windows are dusty enough that I have to squint just to see inside.In the forty-five minutes I have been sitting

BETTYI am standing in the middle of Mrs. Marshal's penthouse in disbelief, my arms loosely folded, my eyes moving slowly across the space like I am seeing it for the first time.The redesign is finally done, and she is coming this afternoon for the final walkthrough.She hasn’t been here all week, since she left the country with her husband to celebrate their twentieth anniversary.Twenty years. The number lingers longer than it should, pressing quietly against something I don’t quite want to examine.I wonder what it takes to hit such a milestone. What you have to forgive, or ignore, to survive.My lips press together as I exhale softly and push the thought away.The contractors cleared out earlier, their loud presence replaced by the soft, efficient movements of the cleaning crew as they move from room to room, wiping, polishing, and perfecting.I trail behind them at a distance, my eyes catching the smallest details, making sure nothing is overlooked, because today is not about “g

NATHANIELI am in Harriette’s garden with the tablet balanced on my thigh, the glow from the screen cutting through the quiet like it has something to prove.The sun is sinking slowly behind the hedges, dragging the last of the daylight with it, but the garden remains lit in that deliberate, curated way Harriette prefers, casting long shadows across the roses.It is quiet. Too quiet.But I prefer it this way, because the study has started to feel suffocating, the walls closing in every time I sit in that chair and remember everything that is currently unraveling in my life.Out here, at least, there is space, and my thoughts feel contained, even if only barely.There is a bottle of whiskey on the table beside me, already opened, and used more than it should be, with a glass poured, waiting.I reach for it, take a measured sip, and let the burn settle in my chest before I bring my attention back to the screen.I zoom in again, and the footage sharpens just enough to tease clarity, but