Mr Billionaire's Regret Chasing His Irresistible Wife (Jared and Arielle) novel Chapter 160

(Arielle’s POV)

Dwayne gestured to the bench, and we both sat down, our shoulders brushing as we settled into the space between us. A heavy silence hung in the air, neither of us speaking. I didn’t want to pressure him, but being near him made me uneasy, especially when I knew he was hiding something from me.

“It’s… complicated,” he said after a moment, breaking the silence.

“That’s one thing about you that I’m trying to understand,” I replied. “You’re complicated, Dwayne. And I want to know why. Don’t try to fool me this time. Nana’s words...”—I shook my head—“Nana Jean’s always been good to me, but that doesn’t mean she’s completely open, especially when her own interests are involved.”

I paused, gathering my thoughts. “I just want to hear it all from you, yourself. If you still regard me as your friend, Dwayne.”

He met my gaze, and for a brief moment, we just stared at each other. He didn’t speak, but his expression softened into that same helpless, tolerant smile, as if to say there was nothing more he could do. He shook his head slightly and then reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a small, vintage-looking wallet. He opened it carefully and took out a photo, holding it out to me.

I took the photo from him. It was old, slightly yellowed, with a crack running down the middle as though it had been torn in two and then glued back together.

I glanced up at Dwayne, but his face was unreadable now. The smile was gone.

He whispered, "Celeste Vandelle. A Hollywood singer in the 1990s. She was incredibly talented. When she debuted, everyone thought she was going to be an international superstar. She’s my mother."

I stared at the woman in the photo. She was singing, mid-performance, completely absorbed in the moment. There was an ethereal quality to her—a stunning, almost androgynous beauty. But it was those emerald eyes that stood out most. They were the same as Dwayne’s. It was like looking into the same pair of eyes, only they were younger, filled with a different kind of light.

“She looks like a siren goddess,” I murmured.

“But within a year,” Dwayne continued, his voice suddenly turning cold, slicing through the still air, “she disappeared. No one cared anymore. Because she died. At such a young age.”

I was stunned.

Before I could respond, Dwayne spoke again, his words coming faster now, almost a blur. “She died. For a man.” His fist clenched, the knuckles turning white.

I looked back at the photo and finally noticed a man standing in the corner, dressed in a black suit and cloak. The moment I saw him, I knew who he was. I didn’t need Dwayne to tell me.

Grant Whitmore Smith. Jared’s father.

Or, more precisely…

“He’s my father,” Dwayne said, his voice as cold as the wind.

(DWAYNE’S POV)

“Start from somewhere, Dwayne. Just… just say something,” she implored, her expression softening.

I’d long moved on from this chapter of my life, but every time I was forced to revisit it, the emotions hit me like a freight train. Arielle deserved to know, though. She deserved that much. So I inhaled, trying to steady myself, and began.