The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 127

Chapter 127

Cynthia's POV

I was convinced that bullet was meant for me.

I knew it to my bones, with absolute certainty. Someone was trying to killme and that young waiter had died because he'd been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Why would anyone want me dead? Yes, there was Anna and her schemes, but attempted murder? That seemed too extreme, too far beyond even her desperate obsession.

I was lost in these thoughts, my mind spinning in circles of logic and fear, barely aware of my surroundings as Ethan dragged me through the chaos of the event.

People were screaming, running in all directions. Someone was shouting about calling 911. A woman was sobbing hysterically. Security guards appeared from nowhere, trying to establish control, trying to find the shooter.

But Ethan wasn't waiting. He was moving with singular focus, his hand gripping mine so tightly it hurt, his body positioned between me and the rest of the room like a human shield.

He was so alert, his head constantly moving, assessing threats, calculating risks. Every muscle in his body was tense, coiled, ready to react to any danger.

He wasn't taking any chances.

We burst through a side door, not the main entrance where other panicked guests were bottlenecking and into the cold December night. The parking lot was chaos too, people running to their cars, engines starting, tires squealing as everyone tried to escape at once.

"Get in," Ethan commanded, practically shoving me toward his car. "Now, Cynthia. Get in the car now."

I obeyed blankly, my body moving on autopilot while my mind remained stuck in that moment—the gunshot, the waiter's shocked eyes, the blood spreading across the polished floor.

Ethan was in the driver's seat seconds later, starting the engine and peeling out of the parking lot before I'd even fully closed my door. The seatbelt alarm dinged urgently until I fumbled with shaking hands to buckle myself in.

He drove fast weaving through traffic with the kind of aggressive precision that suggested he wasn't concerned about speed limits or traffic laws right now.

"We need distance," he said, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors. "We need to get far away from there before whoever that was tries again."

"Where do you want to go?" he asked after several minutes of tense silence, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "Your home? A hotel? The police station?"

"Far away," I said, and my voice sounded strange to my own ears, distant. "I just want to be far away from everything."

Ethan glanced at me. Then he nodded once, decisively, and changed lanes, heading toward the highway that led out of the city.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Far away."

I didn't ask where we were going. Didn't care, really. I just watched the city lights fade behind us as we drove into the darkness, my mind still trapped in that moment of violence.

Time became meaningless. We could have been driving for twenty minutes or two hours—I had no sense of it. I just stared out the window, seeing that waiter's face over and over again.

Finally, Ethan turned off the highway onto a smaller road, and I could smell the salt air even through the closed windows.

And then I recognized it.

The beach house.

Ethan's beach house that he'd bought years ago as an investment property, tucked away on a private stretch of coastline about 45 minutes from Missford.

The beach house he'd taken me to years ago, when Amber was only three years old. A sort of Christmas vacation—just the three of us, no work, no distractions, no Anna. One of the very few times during our marriage when Ethan had actually been present, actually engaged, actually acted like we were a real family.

It brought back memories so vivid they hurt.

It was nostalgic in the most painful way.

We got out and hurried to the door. Ethan fumbled with his keys and finally got the door open.

The house was cold and dark and smelled faintly of salt and disuse. Ethan flipped switches, bringing lights to life, revealing a space that was exactly as I remembered it.

Open floor plan. Kitchen with a view of the ocean. Comfortable furniture arranged around a stone fireplace. Stairs leading up to the bedrooms.

"I'll start a fire," Ethan said, moving toward the fireplace. "And turn up the heat. The house will warm up quickly."

I stood in the middle of the living room, still in my ruined evening gown—champagne stains at the hem from the first spill, now joined by what might have been blood spatters though I couldn't bring myself to look closely…

He'd removed his tuxedo jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his movements efficient as he arranged kindling and logs. Within minutes, flames were crackling to life, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly freezing despite the growing warmth from the fire.

Ethan crossed the room and pulled me into his arms without asking permission.

And I let him.

Let myself lean against his chest, let myself be held, let myself take comfort in his solid presence and the steady beat of his heart under my ear.

"You're safe now," he murmured into my hair. "I've got you. Nothing's going to hurt you. I promise."

"Ethan," I whispered against his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me again."