The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 173

Chapter 173

Bryan’s POV

Anger sat heavy in my chest, thick and suffocating, refusing to loosen its grip no matter how many times I inhaled and exhaled.

Cynthia went home with Ethan.

The thought replayed in my head like a cruel refrain, each repetition sharper than the last.

I stared through the windshield of my parked car, the hospital lights still glowing behind me, sterile and unforgiving. My hands tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. If it were up to me, I would have followed her. I would have made sure Ethan doesn’t try anything stupid with her like taking advantage of her.

But she’d stopped me.

Go back and rest, Bryan. I’ll take care of Ethan.

Like she was still his wife.

Like she still recognized him as her husband.

The words burned.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Ethan didn’t deserve her care. He didn’t deserve her concern, her patience, her softness. Not after everything he’d done. Not after the humiliation, the neglect, the emotional cruelty he’d put her through and called a marriage.

And yet… she went with him.

Not because she loved him. I knew that. I was certain of it.

But because Cynthia was Cynthia.

Too kind. Too empathetic. Too loyal to the version of people she wished they could be instead of the reality of who they were.

She felt sorry for him.

That was the bitter truth I kept circling back to.

Ethan had just discovered that the woman he’d believed was his mother for thirty-five years wasn’t biologically related to him. His entire sense of identity had cracked open in a single night. Anyone with a heart would feel something for him.

Cynthia did.

She always did.

But feeling sorry wasn’t the same as forgiving. And there was no way she would ever forgive him for what he’d done to her. The wounds he’d left weren’t superficial. They were carved deep, layered with years of silence, betrayal, and emotional abandonment.

I told myself that again and again, like a mantra.

She won’t forgive him. She can’t.

Still, the image of her walking away with him twisted something ugly inside me.

I slammed my fist into the steering wheel.

The sharp pain shot up my arm, grounding me, giving the anger somewhere to go.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath.

I had been patient. God, I had been patient.

I hadn’t rushed her. Hadn’t pressured her. Hadn’t tried to insert myself aggressively into her life. I stayed present. Steady. Available. I watched. I waited.

I told her how I felt — finally laid it bare, and she looked at me like I was speaking a language she didn’t understand.

As if the idea of me wanting her, choosing her, loving her, didn’t compute.

Ethan could have her now.

He could have her sympathy, her concern, her temporary loyalty born out of pity and shared trauma. He could cling to the illusion that she still belonged to him because she showed up when he fell apart.

But the hurt he caused her was still there.

No amount of shared history could erase that.

I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead, resolve settling in my chest where anger had been.

This wasn’t over.

When the dust settled—when the shock wore off, when the pity faded, when Cynthia was forced to confront the truth of what she could and could not forgive—I would still be there.

That was my advantage.

I hit the steering wheel again, once more, not in blind rage this time, but in frustrated determination.

“Get it together,” I told myself quietly.

Cynthia wasn’t a prize to be won by force. She was a woman who needed time to unlearn pain and relearn trust. And when she was ready, she wouldn’t choose familiarity over peace.

She would choose me.

I started the engine, the low rumble filling the silence, and pulled out of the parking lot, the hospital disappearing behind me.

Tonight was a setback.

Nothing more.

The game wasn’t over yet.