The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 172

Chapter 172

Cynthia’s POV

The drive back to the Walker mansion was quiet in a way that felt heavy rather than peaceful. The city lights blurred past my windshield, reflections stretching and breaking across the glass like fractured thoughts — much like the ones swirling endlessly in my mind.

Ethan sat beside me, unusually silent.

Not the brooding silence I had grown used to during our marriage, not the cold, dismissive quiet that used to fill the space between us like a wall. This was different. This was exhaustion. Shock. A man who had just learned that the foundation of his entire life had been built on a lie.

I glanced at him briefly, careful not to stare. His head was leaned back against the seat, eyes closed, jaw clenched. He looked pale, drained, like someone who had been hollowed out from the inside.

“Ethan,” I said softly, breaking the silence. “What happened to Anna?”

His eyes opened slowly, and for a moment I thought he might not answer. Then he exhaled.

“She’s in jail,” he said, his voice low. “Awaiting prosecution.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “Oh God.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Sabotage of your restaurant. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me that. I had to find out from the police officers yesterday.” he looked at me for a while and continued, “She was also charged for embezzlement. Defamation. Child abuse charges are being reviewed as well.”

A shiver ran down my spine, and I didn’t know if it was relief or something darker.

“She still refused to talk,” he continued. “Wouldn’t tell the police where Pascal is. Not a word. It’s like… he doesn’t exist.”

“A ghost,” I murmured.

“That’s exactly what the officers said,” Ethan replied. “No traceable address. No financial trail. No recent photos. Nothing. It’s like he vanishes every time someone gets close.”

That sent a chill through me I couldn’t quite shake.

The Walker mansion came into view shortly after, standing tall and imposing behind its iron gates. For the first time since my return, it didn’t feel like home or even like a prison.

It felt like a mausoleum.

Mrs. Daniels rushed out the moment we stepped inside, her face lined with concern the instant she saw Ethan.

“Oh my goodness,” she said softly. “Mr. Walker, you look exhausted.”

“He needs to bathe and rest,” I said gently. “Can you prepare warm water for him, please?”

“Of course,” she replied immediately. “Right away.”

Ethan barely reacted. I slipped my arm around him, and to my surprise, he leaned into me slightly, as though my presence was the only thing keeping him upright.

I guided him upstairs, each step slow and deliberate, until we reached the master bedroom.

Our bedroom.

The moment the door opened, I felt like the air was knocked out of my lungs.

Nothing had changed.

The room looked exactly the same as it had three years ago—the same muted tones, the same polished furniture, the same heavy curtains that filtered the morning light just enough to make everything feel perpetually dim.

The Eiffel Tower wallpaper was still there.

Ethan needed to bathe.

Which meant… privacy.

I cleared my throat. “I should go. You’ll want to …” I gestured vaguely. “Undress.”

I turned to leave, taking only one step toward the door.

His hand closed around my wrist.

I froze.

The contact sent an electric jolt straight through me, every nerve in my body lighting up at once.

I looked back at him slowly.

He was still seated on the bed, his fingers wrapped around my wrist like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go. His eyes met mine, dark and searching, filled with something I couldn’t immediately name.

Vulnerability.

“Don’t go,” he said quietly.

My heart skipped.

“Ethan…” My voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” he continued. “Please.”