All Chapters of Divorcing The Ruthless Billionaire: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The funeral was done in a somber mood and in earnest. It was not something one would think a funeral would be like, where everyone is weeping and everyone was comforting each other.It was one that was done in solitude, something I chose myself. There was no space here for pretending and for false remorse at all. This was not a place for my family's superficial sympathy, their pretended tears that only existed to mask their real feelings, and their flushed faces like a heavy burden.I gave everyone—a person at a time—an unmistakable and stern instruction to keep their distance from my son's last significant ceremony. My mother, my father, Elizabeth, and Damian were among the people that I forbid to show up, and they knew it wasn't a mere statement but a threat— that if they ever dare to go and step anywhere near the funeral, I would swiftly act to and call the police to push them away by force.Thankfully, for the first time in our history, they actually feared that I would really do

A mechanical clatter came from my keyboard in the dark office. Too late—way too late—but I didn’t care. Hours passed, work that barely kept me focused. My eyes burned from the fake light on my screen, but I refused to stop. I refused to think.And Audrey had finished her project! The work that kept my mind and hands busy was done. There were no more emails to send, no deadlines to meet that kept me moving. And now, without it, the silence was deafening.I shoved my desk away and rubbed my temples. The weight around my chest squeezed me to death. I would think about him if I stayed here too long. About Elon. About his smile, how his little hand fit in mine, how he used to cuddle against me when he was scared.No. Not tonight.I grabbed my coat and left the office, my heels clicking against cold marble floors. Outside, the air was cold, it bit my skin, but I barely noticed. The car was there in the lot, but I knew where I was going.It was dark, muffled by cigarette smoke and conversati

THIRD PERON'S POVDrinking had become routine for Eleanor, something that came easily. Only the burn of alcohol dulled everything else—the weight in her chest, the exhaustion in her limbs, the empty space that swallowed her whole when she was alone with her thoughts. So she drank. Every night, until sleep took her over, heavy and dreamless, until she woke up and did it all over again.It happened again tonight. The bar was dark and damp with cheap whiskey and random chatter. It was almost empty, the ice long gone, the last of her drink watered down and bitter. Fingers swayed about the rim, but she did not care to steady herself. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.Until she heard him.“Eleanor.”Mike.He was there—familiar to her as the alcohol burning in her throat. She didn’t have to look up. He had done this for weeks—show up, find her, make sure she didn’t collapse in some alleyway or end up somewhere she shouldn’t be. He never asked how she always found him.She sighed and tipped her

The night air was cold against my skin on the porch as I wrapped my fingers around a pot of tea. Distant cars hummed, leaves rubbed against each other, and it was the silence I had grown accustomed to. The last few weeks, I had been locked in this state, crying in a house that was more mausoleum than home.Yet somehow, tonight felt different. Perhaps it was the pain of carrying so much suffering for so long, or maybe the silver moonlight bathing the street lit something I had gone blind to. Whatever the reason, the words flew off my lips before I could stop them."I can't do this again."That realization settled in my chest—heavy, liberating. But it never felt complete—yet. As if drawn by something unseen, I stood and walked inside slowly but deliberately. My feet carried me up the steps, through the hall, and to the attic door. I hesitated before pushing it open, the musty scent of old wood and forgotten things greeting me.My fingers searched against dusty shelves for something—anyt

The next day, I really left.The first night out of the town was strange to me—like freedom and something I couldn't quite comprehend myself. We rode a plane that soared through the air in silence as we departed, and when we arrived, the air gave me a different feeling. It was thicker and foreign. It was as if I had entered someone's dream. It was as if I had entered Elon's.We didn't really have a plan. We had a list of places that Elon had written in. Cities he circled in travel guides, underlined in the newspaper, and spoke of as if he knew he'd never live to see. So, I wrote for him. I started writing in his journal—first, just scribbles. Dates. Places. How the sidewalk felt beneath my feet, how the ocean echoed in a city he never visited. Then it became more. I wrote to him, as if he could read my words, as if he could follow me in the pages. By taking his journal and making it mine, I hoped to allow him to travel through me.The months went by like that. The ink from my pen tra