The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 185

Chapter 185

Ethan’s POV

Bryan and I were deep inside my father’s private storage wing, a section of the Walker mansion that had always felt more like a vault than part of a home. The air was colder here, stale and unmoving, as though it had been sealed away from the rest of the house for decades. Thick concrete walls closed us in, broken only by long rows of steel shelves stacked from floor to ceiling. Locked cabinets lined one side of the room, each one numbered, each one holding a piece of Harold Walker’s carefully preserved life.

Boxes were everywhere. Some were new, reinforced and labeled. Others were old, the cardboard soft at the edges, corners worn from being moved and stacked and restacked over the years. Every single one bore my father’s handwriting. Clean. Precise. Unemotional.

Harold Walker had been a man who documented everything.

Property deeds bundled with twine. Business contracts sealed in plastic sleeves. Old financial records, tax filings, investment projections. Personal journals bound in leather and dated meticulously on the spine. Typed memos annotated in his own hand, corrections written neatly in the margins.

He had kept a record of his life like he was preparing for a future where someone would need to put the pieces together.

Apparently, that someone was me.

I dragged another box down from a shelf, the weight of it making my shoulders tense, and set it on the large worktable between Bryan and me. Dust puffed into the air as it landed, making me cough softly. I wiped my hands on my trousers and stared down at it, suddenly hesitant.

“I never thought I’d be digging through my father’s life like this,” I muttered. “It feels… invasive.”

Bryan did not look up. He was already flipping through a leather bound notebook, his fingers careful, respectful. “Better invasive than ignorant,” he replied calmly. “If there’s truth hidden in here, it’s better you find it yourself.”

I watched him for a moment.

It still felt strange having him here. Helping me. Standing in the most private part of my family home after everything that had happened between us. After the tension. After the rivalry over Cynthia.

And yet, here he was. Shoulder to shoulder with me. Sorting through my father’s secrets like it was his own history on the line.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked suddenly, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

Bryan paused and looked up at me. “Doing what?”

“Helping me,” I said. “You and I aren’t exactly in a good place right now.”

For a brief second, something vulnerable crossed his face. Then a small, sad smile touched his lips. “I’m going to be with Cynthia. But that doesn’t erase years of friendship.”

I laughed at his confidence and turned back to the box and lifted the lid.

Inside were neatly stacked files, clipped and labeled by year. I began scanning through them methodically, my eyes moving quickly, my pulse slowly quickening. I was searching for anything that mentioned births, hospitals, maternity wards, names of women that were not Grace Walker. Anything that could point to the woman who had actually given birth to me.

I needed to know.

I had lived thirty five years believing Grace Walker was my mother. The woman who raised me with control disguised as discipline.

The woman who slapped me when I disappointed her, manipulated me when she wanted power, interfered in my marriage, tried to ruin Cynthia, and now, apparently, had been plotting behind my back with a son she never even told me about.

A son named Pascal.

“Are you even sure you’re your father’s son?” Bryan asked suddenly, his voice low but steady.

I snapped my head up. “What?”

“I mean,” he continued carefully, “what if you were adopted too? Like Cynthia. Like Anna.”

The laugh burst out of me before I could stop it, sharp and humorless, echoing faintly off the concrete walls.

“That’s one thing I’m sure about,” I said. “My father and I did DNA tests more times than I can count. Company policies. International travel. Legal safeguards. He made me do it even when it felt unnecessary.”

“So you’re definitely his.”

“Fortunately,” I replied flatly. “Yes.”

Bryan nodded slowly. “Then Grace really did something twisted.”

I exhaled, the breath heavy. “You have no idea.”

And still there was nothing.

No mention of a secret child. No hidden confession. No letter tucked away in the back of a journal. No reference to another woman. No explanation.

It made no sense.

My father was meticulous. Obsessive, even. If he had known the truth, there should have been something. Some trace. Some record.

And yet, there was nothing.

“Why was he so secretive?” I muttered, slamming a notebook shut harder than I meant to. “Why leave me completely in the dark?”

Bryan rubbed his forehead, clearly frustrated too. “Maybe the truth was too dangerous to write down.”

I stared at the endless rows of shelves, at the boxes that suddenly felt less like answers and more like barriers.

“This whole thing feels wrong,” I said slowly. “Like someone has been erasing pieces of my life.”

Just then, a sound broke through the heavy silence.

Footsteps.

Both Bryan and I looked up at the same time, every muscle in my body tightening.

“Did you invite someone?” Bryan asked quietly.

I shook my head. “No.”

We stared at each other, alert now, tense.

Someone had entered the house.