The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 225

Chapter 225

Ethan's POV

The hospital corridor felt colder than usual as I walked toward Grace's room.

Each step echoed too loudly against the sterile floors, the sound reverberating in my skull like a countdown to something inevitable. The harsh fluorescent lighting overhead made everything look bleached and overexposed, like a world stripped of warmth.

I'd rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times since getting the DNA results.

Asked the questions. Demanded the truth. Imagined her explanations, her justifications, her excuses.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to hear.

I pushed open the door.

Grace was lying in the hospital bed, her eyes closed, her face pale against the white pillows. For a moment, she looked almost fragile. Almost human. Almost like the woman I'd spent thirty-five years believing was my mother.

Then her eyes opened.

And she smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not a relieved smile.

An evil smile.

The kind that made my blood run cold.

"You came to see me," she said, her voice raspy but steady, "even after discovering I'm not your mother?"

I didn't respond immediately.

I just stood there, staring at the woman who'd raised me, who'd controlled me, who'd shaped every aspect of my life. Who'd sat across from me at every Christmas dinner, every board meeting, every milestone, wearing a lie so perfectly fitted it had never once slipped.

The woman who'd lied to me for thirty-five years.

"Who is my real mother?" I asked, my voice flat and emotionless.

Grace's smile widened.

"She's dead," she said simply. "Died in childbirth. That's why I was forced to adopt you."

The words landed like blows.

"Who was she?" I pressed.

Grace let out a soft, bitter laugh. The sound had no warmth in it whatsoever — just a hollow, contemptuous exhale that told me everything about how little she'd ever thought of the woman who'd given me life.

"A maid," she said, her tone dripping with disdain. "Your father slept with the help. Got her pregnant. And when she died bringing you into this world, he begged me to take you in. To raise you as my own. To give you the Walker name."

I felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me.

A maid.

My mother had been a maid.

Which meant I was…

"The son of a mistress," Grace continued, reading my thoughts. "The son of the help. Which is why you don't deserve to own Walker Industries."

Her words echoed in my head, cold and final. She said it so casually. So cleanly. As though she'd been waiting years to say it out loud and was finally enjoying the release of it.

I stood there, absorbing the blow, feeling the weight of everything I'd just learned settle onto my shoulders.

"Pascal is my blood," she hissed. "You were never mine."

"No," I agreed coldly. "I wasn't. And thank God for that."

I moved closer to the bed, leaning down so we were eye-level. Close enough to see the fear she was trying very hard not to show.

"You know me very well, Grace," I said, my voice deadly calm. "You lived with me literally all my life. And by now, you should know that I am a man of my word."

Her eyes flickered with something that might have been fear.

"So I'm going to make this very simple," I continued. "As soon as you're released from this hospital, your properties — every single thing you have in my home — will be removed and sent to your sister in Chicago."

Grace's face went pale.

"You can't…" she started.

"I can," I cut her off. "I do not want to see you or your cohorts anywhere near my properties. Ever."

Her breathing quickened, her hands trembling slightly against the blanket. For the first time in my life, Grace Walker looked exactly like what she was — a woman whose carefully constructed empire was crumbling around her, brick by brick.

"And before I forget," I added, straightening up, "I'll be selling off your shares of Walker Industries. The money will be transferred to your account. If you have any complaints, you can take them up with my lawyer."

Grace stared at me, shock and fury battling across her face.

"You demonic…" she started.

"Merry Christmas, Grace," I said, cutting her off one final time.

Then I turned and walked out.