The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 182

Chapter 182

Cynthia’s POV

“Can I switch to video call?” Pierre asked, and the simple request somehow added to my nervousness, as if seeing his face would make everything more real.

“Yeah, sure.”

Pierre’s face filled my screen the moment the video connected, bright and animated, his familiar energy spilling through the phone like a steady anchor.

“Season’s greetings, boss!” he said with a wide grin. “You look a little tired, but still as gorgeous as ever.”

I laughed softly, the sound surprising even me, because it had been a while since laughter came easily. I realized immediately that nothing disastrous had happened, because Pierre never started with compliments if there was bad news. That alone loosened something tight in my chest. I was grateful for something normal in the middle of all this madness, for a reminder that not every part of my life was on fire.

“Thank you, Pierre,” I said. “I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes in the past forty-eight hours.”

“Well, let me give you some good news to balance out whatever chaos you’re dealing with,” he replied, leaning closer to the camera as if sharing a secret. “Maison Cynclair is doing incredibly well. The holiday reservations are through the roof. We’ve already had to extend hours because people keep booking for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”

My heart lifted instantly, the weight on my chest easing just a little. “That’s amazing,” I said, and this time the smile came naturally.

“And the tech tool you designed,” Pierre continued, excitement sharpening his voice. “Absolute genius. The inventory tracking alone has cut waste by thirty percent. The staff loves it. We can see which dishes sell best in real time, adjust pricing, everything. That friend of yours is a very smart man, ma’am.”

I smiled faintly at that, a mix of pride and uncertainty settling in my chest. Bryan might be acting strange lately, distant and unpredictable, but hearing this reminded me why I had trusted him in the first place. No matter what was happening between us personally, his work had delivered. That mattered.

Pierre turned the phone around so I could see the restaurant floor, and the familiar sight hit me harder than I expected. Warm lighting, polished tables, staff moving with confidence and purpose. My staff waved excitedly the moment they saw my face on the screen.

“Madame Cynthia!” one of the waitresses called. “When are you coming back? Christmas without you isn’t the same.”

“We miss you,” another added with a laugh. “The kitchen feels too quiet.”

Warmth spread through my chest, deep and comforting, the kind that reminded me why I had built Maison Cynclair in the first place. “I miss you all too,” I said honestly. “I promise I’ll be back soon.”

“Soon like before New Year?” Pierre teased, tilting the phone slightly so I could still see the staff grinning in the background.

“Soon like very soon,” I replied with a laugh, hoping it sounded more confident than I felt.

They all cheered, laughter filling my screen, and for a brief moment everything felt okay, like the ground beneath my feet was solid again and not constantly shifting.

After a few more minutes of chatting, Pierre brought the camera back to himself, his expression turning a shade more serious while still warm. “Seriously, ma’am. We’re holding things down here, but people expect you. You’re the face of Maison Cynclair.”

“I know,” I said quietly, the truth of it settling in my chest.

“Take care of whatever you need to take care of,” he added gently. “But don’t forget us in Paris.”

Missford was a growing city, full of high-income residents, tourists, business executives, people who appreciated quality and experience. A perfect market.

I could also say that another part of my reason for staying was Amber, because that was true too, even if I did not say it out loud.

It was a good idea.

A very good idea.

I was just starting to smile to myself, already imagining possibilities, locations, menus, when a shadow fell over me.

“Cynthia.”

I looked up to see Nathaniel standing there, his face tense, his phone clenched in his hand.

“What is it?” I asked, instantly alert, the earlier warmth draining from my chest.

“There’s a problem,” he said quietly.

My stomach tightened.

“What kind of problem?”