The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17

**Ethan’s POV**

I’d just dropped Amber off at school, his small hand lingering in mine a second longer than usual, and his eyes distant like they had been since that car ride confession about seeing Cynthia.

I pushed the thought down… business first. This meeting with Harlan Voss could lock in the distribution deal for Walker Industries‘ new tech line, a step up from our mid–tier status, something to prove we belonged in the big leagues.

I rolled down my window, flashing my ID to the security guard, a burly guy in a crisp uniform who looked like he’d seen enough luxury cars to be unimpressed. “Ethan Walker,” I said, keeping my voice steady, professional. “Here for Harlan Voss. 11 a.m. appointment.”

The guard scanned my credentials, his eyes flicking over the details with practiced efficiency. “One moment, Mr. Walker.” He tapped something into his tablet, the gate’s arm staying firmly down. “Voss residence is on the east loop. No guests beyond the

main drive without clearance.”

Before I could respond, a low rumble cut through the air, a black Bentley gliding past the gate like it owned the road. The tinted rear window was cracked just enough, and as it slowed at the checkpoint, I caught a glimpse inside. A man’s arm draped casually around a woman’s shoulders, her head tilted against him, laughing at something he’d said. Her dark hair cascading in loose waves, the curve of her jaw, that effortless grace, hit me like a freight train.

Cynthia.

My heart slammed against my ribs. “Wait…” I started, but the words choked in my throat. The car accelerated smoothly, disappearing down, every instinct screaming to floor it after them. (1

That was definitely Cynthia, I would definitely recognize her at just a glimpse. Cynthia is alive?

Amber hadn’t been wrong after all, or was this Cynthia’s ghost playing tricks on us?

Who was that? Who the hell was she with? And why did it feel like a knife twisting in my gut?

“Mr. Walker?” The guard’s voice snapped me back. “You’re cleared. Proceed straight ahead, third left.”

I forced a nod, my mind reeling. “That Bentley,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Who owns it? The guy inside looks familiar.”

The guard glanced down the road, then back at me with a shrug that said he dealt with nosy visitors all day. “That’s Kevin Lauren’s ride. F1 hotshot. Owns the big villa at the end of Azure Lane, five hundred square meters of prime real estate, give or take. Comes and goes quiet, though. No parties, no fuss.”

Kevin Lauren. The name rang a bell.

“Right,” I muttered, easing the car through the gate. “Thanks.”

The meeting with Voss dragged on, his office a shrine to golf trophies and leather–bound ledgers. We talked margins and timelines.

I pitched how Walker Industries‘ upcoming tech line could undercut the competition without compromising on quality. He nodded along like he was doing me a favor.

“Your numbers look tight, Ethan,” he said finally, leaning back in his high–backed chait, swirling a tumbler of scotch that probably cost more than my mortgage. “But tight only matters if it scales. You got the muscle to push this East Coast?”

I leaned in, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “We’ve got the infrastructure. Warehouses in three states. Partnerships

with…”

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#17

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My phone buzzed on the desk, Voss’s eyes flicking to it with mild annoyance. I glanced down … Amber’s school. Shit. “Excuse me,” I said, answering quickly. “Everything okay?”

“Mr. Walker?” The assistant’s voice was calm, “Amber’s fine, but he asked me to remind you about the parent–teacher conference next week. It’s important.”

I exhaled, rubbing my temple. “Got it. Thanks.” Hanging up, I turned back to Voss. “Family stuff. Where were we?”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “Priorities, eh? Alright, Walker. Send over the revised projections by Monday. If they hold, we’ve got a deal.”

We shook on it.

The drive home blurred by, my mind replaying that glimpse in the Bentley, the woman’s laugh, light and free, nothing like the strained smiles Cynthia used to give me across the dinner table.

***

Inside, the house felt too quiet and empty without her. I poured a scotch, top–shelf, but nothing like Voss’s, and sank into my office chair, firing up my laptop. “Kevin Lauren F1,” I typed, the search results flooding the screen in a rush of glamour and grit.

–

Photos of him: helmet off, sweat–slicked hair, grinning on podiums with champagne spraying like victory was effortless. Wins stacked like trophies Monaco ’23, Silverstone ’24, a string of poles that made him untouchable. Then the gossip: arm candy at galas, flings with models and heiresses, the tabloid staple of a bachelor racer who dated like he drove…fast, flashy, no strings.

Nothing deep, no scandals beyond the bedroom. Owned property worldwide, sure…a penthouse in Monaco, a ranch in Tuscany… but that villa in Willowbrook? Buried in property records, shielded by trusts that screamed “untouchable.”

I slammed the laptop shut. What if Amber was right? What if she was alive, rebuilt, wrapped in someone else’s arms, someone like Kevin Lauren, who could give her the world I never did?

He was probably using her like the media portray him to be.

Hold on, that can’t be Cynthia, right? It’s been three fucking years of her disappearance. No body was found to tell she’s dead, so

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