Returning with Triple Treasures: My CEO Husband Is Obsessed novel Chapter 2

A tense silence hung in the air. An hour earlier, Isabella had been pronounced dead on the operating table. Now, faced with Xavier's question, no one dared to utter a word.

After a long moment, Jacob spoke up cautiously. "There were... complications during Mrs. Moore's procedure. A massive hemorrhage. The doctors couldn't..."

"How do you get 'complications' from a standard D&C?" Xavier's voice was dangerously low, his eyes fixed on the morgue door. His expression was dark, stormy, terrifying.

Jacob had no answer. Xavier suddenly shoved the doors open, stepping into the chilled room. But the hand he raised to pull back the sheet... it froze mid-air. He couldn't do it.

Just then, a courier arrived at the hospital administration desk.

"Mr. Moore," Jacob said quietly, intercepting the envelope. "This was sent by Mrs. Moore before... before the procedure."

Before he could finish, Xavier snatched the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a single document. A divorce agreement. And at the bottom, her signature—neat, firm, and already notarized.

*****

Five years later, at the check-in desk of a luxury boutique hotel in the city...

"Please have housekeeping clean the Presidential Suite," a woman said, her voice cool behind oversized sunglasses. She turned and walked toward the exit without waiting for a reply.

She was dressed in understated but impeccable designer wear. Slung over one shoulder was a limited-edition Birkin, and nestled comfortably on her other hip was a boy of about five.

The boy had a face of soft, childlike roundness, but his features were strikingly sharp and clear—eyes a vivid, intelligent blue. He looked like a child actor from a high-end catalog, yet his expression was preternaturally serene, a stark contrast to his stylish, tiny bomber jacket and sneakers.

"Wow, did you see her?" a front desk agent whispered to the other as the elevator doors closed. "Her skin, her posture... everything. Is that what 'mom' looks like now?"

"I know," the other murmured back, eyes wide. "A single night in that suite is probably more than my monthly rent. Half my mortgage, honestly."

Amid their hushed admiration, the woman exited the hotel's revolving doors and slipped into the back seat of a waiting town car.

Her phone buzzed immediately. She answered, and the face of her sister, Hannah Carter, filled the screen. "Bella!"

Isabella's brow furrowed slightly. "Indoor voice, Hannah. I'm in the car."

She angled the phone, and the little boy beside her—her youngest son, Jason—tilted his head to look. He didn't speak, just observed with those quiet, knowing eyes.

Hannah immediately lowered her voice, leaning closer to her camera. "Right, sorry. Listen, are you sure you weren't followed? Everything clean?"

Isabella was the recently acknowledged—and notoriously private—heiress to the Carter family, an international investment dynasty of old money and significant influence.

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