The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 188

Chapter 188

Cynthia’s POV

The Cross Energy end-of-year gala was nothing like I had imagined.

I had attended corporate events more times than I could count. Fundraisers, board dinners, investor galas, fashion week after-parties where money flowed as freely as champagne. I thought I understood this world. I thought I knew how to move through rooms filled with power without flinching.

But this was different.

From the moment my car slowed in front of the grand hotel, I felt it. The weight of the place. The importance of the people inside. This was not just an event. It was a statement. Influence concentrated into one glittering evening.

Uniformed attendants rushed forward the second the car stopped. One opened my door, another offered a hand, their movements precise, rehearsed.

“Ms. Cynclair, this way, please.”

I forced myself not to react, but my fingers curled slightly around my clutch. The way they treated me felt different. Loaded and complicated. I stepped out anyway, lifting my chin, reminding myself that I had survived far worse than whispered opinions.

Inside, the ballroom took my breath away.

Crystal chandeliers cascaded from the ceiling, scattering warm golden light across marble floors and silk gowns. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume, polished wood, and money. Tables stretched across the room in perfect symmetry, draped in white linen and adorned with silver accents and white roses that looked too flawless to be real.

But the moment I crossed the threshold, everything shifted.

Heads turned.

Everywhere.

It was not subtle. Conversations faltered. Laughter dipped. I felt eyes lock onto me from every direction, assessing, weighing, dissecting. Whispers followed me like a shadow, growing louder with each step I took.

Why are they looking at me like this?

Before I could stop and gather myself, a young woman in a sleek Cross Energy uniform approached me. She bowed slightly, respectful, composed.

“Ms. Cynclair, we’ve been expecting you. Please follow me.”

Expecting me?

The words sent a ripple of unease through my chest. I hesitated for only a second before nodding and following her. Turning back now would only draw more attention. I straightened my shoulders and walked forward.

She did not take me to a regular table.

She led me straight through the center of the room.

Straight to the most prominent table there was.

Positioned perfectly, visible from every angle, placed directly beside the chairman’s seat.

My steps slowed.

“This is your place,” the woman said politely, pulling out the chair.

I stopped dead.

“Excuse me,” I said carefully. “Are you sure?”

She smiled, unbothered. “Absolutely, ma’am.”

Before I could protest again, the first camera flashed.

Then another and another.

Click. Click. Click.

Photographers appeared out of nowhere, lenses trained on me, voices calling out my name. My pulse spiked. I forced a smile, one I had perfected over years of public appearances, even though my stomach was twisting painfully.

Then his eyes found mine.

And he smiled.

My heart sank.

He excused himself from the press without difficulty and walked directly toward me, ignoring everyone else. He pulled out the chair beside me, the chairman’s seat, and sat down as though this was exactly how things were meant to be.

“Good evening, Cynthia,” he said smoothly.

My voice came out lower than I intended. “Nikolai… why did you reserve a seat for me here?”

He leaned back comfortably, as if the weight of the room did not exist for him. “Because you’re my most important guest.”

My brows pulled together. “Important guest? This is the chairman’s table.”

He glanced around at the watching crowd, unfazed. “And I am the chairman. I like to keep a close eye on what’s important to me.”

My breath caught.

There it was again.

That line he kept walking. That dangerous space between charm and intention. Between public courtesy and something deeply personal.

I forced a polite smile as cameras continued to flash, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Nikolai had been clear before. About his interest. About what he wanted. And I had been clear too, or at least I thought I had.

So why was he doing this?

With Matilda’s threat still echoing in my mind, with everything in my life balanced on the edge of collapse, a thought slipped in that I could not ignore.

Had I somehow, without meaning to, led him on?