The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 18

**Cynthia’s POV**

This time around, I didn’t meet Anna outside, so I hoped for a better story in class today

The lecture hall was fuller than I expected, not just the enrolled students, but auditors, visitors, curious faces who’d heard whispers about the Michelin three–star chef turned visiting professor.

I stood at the podium, in my element, my voice steady as I spoke about the philosophy behind culinary creation, how food was a form of communication, a bridge between cultures, how respecting ingredients meant honoring the hands that harvested them and the people who would savor them.

The students were engaged, leaning forward, jotting notes, raising hands with thoughtful questions. “How do you balance tradition and innovation in a dish?” one asked.

“By listening to the story each ingredient tells,” I replied, smiling as murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. It was a fulfilling moment for me.

But then I noticed a man in his thirties, three rows back, his gaze fixed on me, it wasn’t the appreciative gaze of someone absorbing the material, but a focused, predatory glare, like a hunter waiting for the perfect shot. Tension coiled in my gut, but I pushed it down, continuing my lecture. Who was he? Something about his sharp features tugged at a buried memory, but I couldn’t place where I had met him.

As I wrapped up, fielding a final question about sustainable sourcing, the man stood.

He cleared his throat loudly, his voice cutting through the hum like a knife. “Ms. Cynclair… or should I say, Cynthia Walker? I have something to say about your credibility as an educator.”

The hall went silent, all eyes turning to him. My hands gripped the podium, who the hell is he and how does he know I am Cynthia Walker? Is Anna at it again?

“Excuse me?” I said, keeping my voice professional, calm, even as my heart raced. “If you have a question, perhaps we can discuss it after…”

“Oh, it’s not a question,” he interrupted, his tone dripping with false politeness as he pulled out his phone, projecting images onto the screen behind me. “It’s a revelation. I’m Marcus Chen, and I know exactly who you are. I’ve been following your so- called ‘inspirational‘ career, and I realized…I went to middle school with you.”

Oh yes, I remember him now! Marcus Chen. Eighth grade. The boy who’d stood in the hallway to assist in ensuring no teacher was approaching while Anna and her friends had cornered me in the bathroom with their bullying.

Marcus had laughed when they’d humiliated me, he was dating one of Anna’s friends and ensured to help them spread lies about me.

Fucking Anna had orchestrated this again, like the incident during the practical yesterday, right! How could I have thought she would stop at that?

“Ms. Cynclair…you said you went to École de Cuisine, but there’s no evidence governing that”

What is he talking about? I tried to alter that accusation immediately but he was faster.

He swiped to the first photo… a grainy snapshot from eighth grade, me standing in a hallway, thin and wide–eyed, surrounded by a group of girls. Anna and her friends. The students gasped, whispers erupting: “That’s her? She looks so young…” “Walt,

what is this?”

Marcus smiled, triumphant. “This is Cynthia in middle school, orchestrating her little schemes. See that look on her face? That’s not innocence…she was a bully, she bullied the girls in the class, she spread rumors about classmates to isolate them,

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make herself look better. Remember Fanny Whitaker, the girl accused of stealing lunch money in 2006? Cynthia planted the cash in her locker, spread the rumor to ruin her. Why? Because Fanny was smarter, better, a threat in the math competition.”

The room exploded in murmurs, students‘ faces twisting in shock. “No way, she framed someone?” one whispered. “I thought she was inspiring, like a saint…” “We almost worshipped. This can’t be true!” Another gasped, “That’s awful. Fanny killed herself, didn’t she?”

No! My mind screamed, countering his lies with fierce clarity. ‘I didn’t frame Fanny! Anna and her friends planted that money to humiliate her, to break her spirit because she outshone them. I was there, trying to comfort Fanny, begging her to tell the truth. I was bullied too, not the bully!‘

But my voice faltered, the words trapped in my throat as the headache surged, my vision blurring.

“This is a lie…”

“Deny it, Cynthia!” Marcus cut me short, “Deny that you didn’t cause the death of Fanny by setting her up, everyone who graduated with us at St. Joseph’s can testify to the fact that you were the culprit”

The room buzzed, students leaning in, phones out to record. “No way,” one murmured. “She seems so genuine…” “I thought she was like a god… always composed, always kind. This can’t be right.” Another gasped, “That’s messed up.”

I suddenly felt my head spinning, what did I do to Marcus Chen to deserve this false accusations?

“I did no such thing!” I said but it sounded so unreal, it felt like I was only being defensive and I was actually guilty of what I was being accused of.

Marcus swiped to another photo–me alone in the bathroom, my face red, eyes puffy from crying. “Look at this,” he said, his voice rising. “Cynthia faking tears to get sympathy from teachers after Fanny’s death playing the victim card like she wasn’t the one behind the set up”

Gasps filled the hall, whispers turning to shocked murmurs: “I can’t believe it…she seemed so inspiring, like a role model. We

almost idolized her.”

No, that’s a lie! That photo was taken after Anna and her group locked me in the bathroom, pouring water over me, laughing as I begged to be let out.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, to defend myself in the best way possible

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