All Chapters of The Billionaire's Forgotten Ex-wife : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

[Lincoln] The ambiance of the 7-star Michelin restaurant is almost suffocatingly posh, reeking of old money and self-importance. Crystal chandeliers dangle from the high ceiling, their cold light shimmering off gold-accented walls. The faint hum of soft classical music seeps into the room, blending with the clink of fine cutlery and quiet murmurs of privileged patrons. Why Clement Thompson chose this particular restaurant for a simple lunch is beyond me. It feels like I’ve walked into a live-action display of "Who’s the Richest?" “Right this way, Mr. Sawyer.” A lady with a crisp British accent, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, leads me through the maze of lavishly decorated tables to a private room. The air is thick with the scent of aged wine and freshly baked bread. Seating in front of Mr. Thompson, I relax my posture, though every instinct tells me to be on guard. His sharp, calculating eyes study me like I’m both a challenge and a prize he intends

[Deric] "What do you mean you're canceling the deal? This is unacceptable, I–hello? Hello?!" "Fuck!" I snap, slamming my fist against the polished oak conference table, the sharp sound reverberating across the room. The board of directors seated across from me flinch, their faces pale and tense. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" My breathing quickens, chest tightening. "We're losing everything! How did this happen?" My voice cracks with desperation. "W-we have no clue," one of the men stammers, beads of sweat gathering at his temple. "It's as if we're intentionally being blacklisted by some force." His words send a chill down my spine. Blacklisted? By who? Why now? "What does that even mean?" I respond sharply, my voice cutting through the stifling air. "This issue isn't confined to San Diego—our suppliers and recruits are terminating contracts across the entire state of California!" How is it possible that no one wants to work with Ames Finances? The company I built with blood, swe

[Arella]Vivian turns to face me, her eyes widening in shock. Her blood-red lipstick falters slightly, though she quickly schools her expression. She’s dressed to impress, wearing a fitted white blazer with gold accents and matching high-waisted trousers, her stilettos clicking nervously against the tiled floor. Her sleek, chestnut-brown hair falls perfectly over her shoulders—too perfect, too practiced.“A-Arella?” she says incredulously, her voice trembling just enough to seem genuine. “What are you doing here?”I arch a brow, my pulse quickening—not with fear, but with simmering resentment. Her audacity still manages to surprise me.“I should be asking you that, Vivian,” I snap, keeping my voice cold and steady. “Haven’t you already been informed that we do not wish to work with Ames Finances?”The flicker of embarrassment in her eyes is brief before she recovers, her expression hardening.“And what gave you the right to turn down Ames Finances?” she prods, her voice sharp. Gon

[Lincoln] "I’ve told you countless times to make sure she doesn’t leave your sight, but let her do her own thing nonetheless." “I’m sorry, sir,” the icy voice says over the phone, his tone clipped and professional as always. “It’s okay. We’ll—” A delicious, mouth-watering aroma wafts through the house as soon as I step in, wrapping around me like a warm hug. The strangely familiar, savory scent is enough to make my stomach growl in anticipation. I barely register the greetings of the staff, my focus narrowing in on that intoxicating smell. What’s that glorious smell? “Hello? Sir?” the voice on the phone prompts. “We’ll talk later,” is all I say before cutting off the call, my mind already drifting toward the kitchen. It’s almost like an invisible string pulling me forward, guiding me toward the source of the heavenly scent. And there she is. She’s still in her work clothes—the first thing I notice, and my brows knit together. Didn’t she freshen up? She must be e

[Lincoln] "What do you mean, your wife's company?" Jordan chokes out, wide-eyed, while Benson remains shell-shocked. The conference room is bathed in soft, natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. Outside, the San Diego skyline stretches in the distance, and the faint hum of the city filters through. The room smells faintly of polished wood and coffee, Benson’s half-empty cup sitting on the table. Both men are dressed in their typical boardroom attire—tailored dark suits and crisp white shirts. Jordan’s blue tie is loosened slightly, a rebellious contrast to Benson’s always-perfect Windsor knot. "You heard me," I repeat stoically, leaning back in my chair, fingers steepled. Is this so hard to believe? I know I promised Arella not to tell anyone, but these two? These guys are more like brothers than friends. I’ve known these assholes since my days at Harvard, and if anyone would understand, it’s them—or so I thought. They exchange a look—mischievous and full