The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 132

Chapter 132

Cynthia’s POV

What was I thinking?

The question kept repeating in my head like a cruel chant as my feet sank into the thick beach sand with every hurried step. Allowing myself to sleep with Ethan. Letting my body forget what my mind had spent three years trying so hard to remember.

I squeezed my eyes shut briefly as the memory threatened to resurface — the warmth of his skin, the familiarity of his touch, the way my body had responded as if it had never learned how to exist without him.

Yes, I enjoyed the sex.

That truth hurt more than I was willing to admit.

I’d wanted it to be real. I’d wanted to wake up and believe that last night was the beginning of something healed and whole. That everything we’d broken could somehow be fixed in one night of desperation and longing.

But that wasn’t reality.

Reality was Anna.

Reality was the fact that there was a child involved now — a life that didn’t ask to be born into confusion and lies. A child who, whether I liked it or not, tied Ethan permanently to another woman.

Hayden.

Ethan had a child with her.

That alone should have been enough to stop me last night. Enough to remind me why I’d left in the first place. Enough to keep my heart guarded and my body out of his bed.

But I’d been weak.

And now I was paying for it.

My chest tightened as I struggled forward, the hem of my dress brushing against my calves, the sand clinging to my shoes like it wanted to drag me back. Each step felt heavier than the last, not just because of the terrain, but because of the weight pressing down on my heart.

Ethan wasn’t someone I could reconcile with.

No matter how much I wanted to or how familiar it felt to be in his arms.

No matter how much my body still recognized his touch as home.

He was entangled with Anna in a way that couldn’t be undone. Not cleanly. Not without casualties. And I refused to be one of them again.

If he had a child with her, then he should marry her.

That was the responsible thing to do. The right thing. The thing I kept telling myself I believed in.

So why did it feel like my insides were being torn apart as I walked away?

The beach finally ended, giving way to the narrow driveway that led out toward the road. I slowed, my breath uneven, my chest rising and falling too quickly as I came to a stop near the entrance.

That was when it hit me.

My phone.

I froze.

A sharp wave of panic washed over me as my hands instinctively went to my pockets, then my bag — except I wasn’t carrying a bag.

I hadn’t brought anything with me.

I’d left everything behind at the event. My purse. My phone. My sense of control. All of it abandoned in the chaos after the shooting, when survival had been the only thing that mattered.

Now I stood there, completely helpless.

No phone.

No car.

No way to call anyone.

I turned slowly, glancing back in the direction of the beach house. It was barely visible from here, tucked away behind the curve of the sand and greenery. Going back wasn’t an option. I couldn’t face Ethan again. Not when my emotions were this raw and tangled.

I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. The morning breeze brushed against my skin, cool and unforgiving, as if reminding me that whatever warmth I’d felt hours ago was already gone.

What now, Cynthia?

I stood there, staring blankly at the road, my mind racing through useless options. Walk? Where? Flag down a stranger? Risky. Wait? For how long?

A car slowed.

The sound of tires crunching against gravel made my head snap up, my heart jumping into my throat. Instinctively, I took a step back, wary.

And then, without warning, the dam broke.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision as the ache I’d been holding back finally demanded to be felt. I turned my face away instinctively, ashamed, humiliated by the sudden loss of control.

“No,” I whispered to myself, my voice breaking. “No, no…”

But it was too late.

The tears spilled over, hot and relentless, sliding down my cheeks as my shoulders trembled. I hated myself in that moment—hated that I was crying like this, out in the open, in front of Nikolai of all people.

I wasn’t supposed to fall apart.

I was Cynthia Cynclair. The woman who rebuilt herself. The woman who survived betrayal and exile and came back stronger.

So why did I feel so fragile now?

Nikolai was out of the car in seconds.

The door closed softly behind him as he approached, his movements careful, unthreatening. He didn’t crowd me. Didn’t ask questions. He just stood there, close enough that I could feel his presence without feeling trapped.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s okay.”

That was all it took.

I shook my head, tears still falling, my chest aching with the effort of trying to pull myself together.

“I’m sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was apologizing for. “I didn’t mean to… I don’t usually…”

“I know,” he said gently.

He guided me toward the car, one hand hovering near my back. When he opened the passenger door, I hesitated for only a second before allowing him to help me inside.

The seat felt too soft, too safe.

As he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to breathe through the lingering sobs.

The engine started.

And we drove off.