The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 12

Cici, are you sure you can go by yourself?”

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Kevin’s concern was written all over his face as he stood in the massive living room, still in his racing gear from a morning training session. His hair was damp, his expression troubled with the expression of a man who’d spent twenty years worrying about a sister he’d only just found.

“Nathaniel and Julian strongly insisted I go with you,” he continued. “I came all the way to Missford just to…”

“I’m over thirty years old, Kevin.” I softened my tone, understanding the weight behind his words. “And I’m doing well. I promise.” (19

“But…”

“I can handle it.” I moved to him and took his hands. “Don’t worry. Besides, Mr. Stanley has assigned me high–level security. I’m not walking into this unprotected.”

The worry in his eyes didn’t diminish. Instead, he pulled me close and did what he always did, patted me on the nose. His annoyingly–sweet habit.

“Don’t say that anymore,” he said softly. “Even at sixty, you’re still our little sister. You know we lost you for more than twenty years. We’re not letting you out of our sight without good reason.”

Their protective fierceness was still new to me and it sometime sounds very awkward. After eight years in a marriage of being invisible, it felt almost overwhelming to be seen so completely.

“I know.” I hugged him tightly. “I understand. And I love you too, really, very much. But it’s already nine o’clock, and I really have to go. We’ll have dinner when you get back. I’ll cook for you myself. Okay?”

His face lit up like I’d offered him the world. “That’s amazing! The best chef in the world will cook for me. I’m already looking forward to it.”

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“And I know you planned a date with that girl from the airport, just go have some fun, flirt”

He give me a knowing smile, “You know me too well”

He helped me into my coat with surprising gentleness for a man who piloted Formula One cars at two hundred miles per hour, and walked me to the car.

“Bye. Love you,”

“Love you too, little sister,” he called as the car pulled away.

***

Mr. Stanley was waiting at the university gates, his face a study in careful professionalism with just a hint of nervousness underneath.

“Welcome to Missford University, Ms. Laurent,” he said warmly. “The students are waiting for you in the lecture hall. We’ve prepared everything exactly as you requested.”

I nodded, falling into the familiar rhythm of professional courtesy. “Thank you, Mr. Stanley. Shall we?”

He led the way across the campus, chattering about Gothic architecture and the university’s distinguished history. I half-

listened, my eyes taking in the familiar routes, the quad where I’d once sat nervously waiting for the admission counselor, the pathway I’d walked when I came to plead for Amber’s enrollment.

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“You know,” Mr. Stanley was saying, “the University of Missford has some of the most famous Gothic architectural buildings in the world. In the seventeenth century, this building was actually a Catholic church. Quite remarkable, really. If you have time after the lecture, perhaps I could give you a tour?”

“I’ve been here before,” I said quietly.

He looked surprised. “Have you? When? I don’t recall…”

“A long time ago. Not worth mentioning.”

I turned away before he could ask more questions, and he took the hint, falling silent. But the memories were already flooding back.

Five years ago. Before the diagnosis, I’d visited every prestigious private school in the city, desperate to find the right fit for Amber. I’d done the research, scheduled the appointments, filled out the applications myself.

Missford Academy had been my favorite. A rigorous institution, yes, but fair. The kind of place that would challenge Amber to be his best self while also teaching him compassion and responsibility.

Ethan had shown almost no interest in the decision. “Whatever you think is best,” he’d said without even looking at the brochures I’d left on his desk.

But I’d gotten sick on the day of the admission interview, one of my early headaches that everyone had dismissed – I’d asked Ethan to take Amber in my place.

I should have known better that he would take Anna along.

Anna had decided that Missford Academy was “too strict” and would “stifle Amber’s natural potential.” Instead of the interview, she’d taken him to an amusement park. He’d been thrilled at the time. I’d been devastated.

In the end, Amber had been accepted to Missford anyway, his test scores were exceptional, and they’d waived the interview requirement. But he’d never attended because Ethan had preferred the school closer to home, the one with less structure, the one Anna had suggested.

None of that mattered now.

I stepped into the elevator, looking around at the familiar architecture.

They no longer have anything to do with me, I reminded myself firmly. I agreed to come here to reclaim my own story, not to

relive theirs.

***

The lecture hall was packed.

Over two hundred students filled every seat, their attention focused entirely on me as I took my place at the podium. I’d given hundreds of interviews, hosted dozens of cooking demonstrations, but this felt different. More intimate and important because it is passing on not just technique, but philosophy and values.

I spoke about the importance of treating food and by extension, all of life as something sacred. I discussed the difference between cooking, for approval and cooking for joy. I talked about failure, about how my greatest dishes had come after my worst

mistakes.

And I talked, carefully but honestly, about what it meant to pursue your passion when the world try to make you feel intimidated.

At the end, a young woman raised her hand. “Ms. Cynclair, I’ve always respected you. I didn’t expect to hear your lecture in person. I also want to be a Michelin chef, but my family doesn’t support me. They say it’s impractical, that I should do something more stable. Do you have any suggestions for how to convince them?”

The question hung in the air, and I felt the weight of it. How many versions of this question had I asked myself? How many times had I sacrificed my own dreams trying to convince people who would never understand? I stayed a house wife for eight

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fucking years.

“I understand your frustration,” I said, my voice steady. “When you’re chasing your dreams, it’s hard when people don’t understand, they will try to discourage you. But here’s what I’ve learned: you can’t convince everyone. Some people will never get it. And that’s okay.”

I paused, making sure she was really listening.

“What matters is that you keep going. You keep learning. You keep making progress. You keep moving forward. Because when others say you can’t, the only thing that matters is that you prove you can…especially to yourself.”

The applause that followed was thunderous. Students stood, clapping, and I saw tears on some of their faces. I’d touched something in them, the part that believed in themselves even when the world told them to stop.

As they filed out, chatting excitedly, I felt fulfilled. This was why I’d come back.

***

The driver was waiting as I exited the building.

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