The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 243

Chapter 243

Ethan's POV

I was feeling better.

Not good, exactly— my body still ached from the fall when I fainted, my head still felt too heavy, and the IV drip in my arm was a constant reminder that I'd let myself fall apart so completely that my own body had shut down.

But better.

Better enough to sit up properly in bed.

Better enough to have my laptop balanced on my lap, reviewing the preliminary restructuring plans Margaret had sent over.

Walker Industries without Anna running day-to-day operations.

Walker Industries without Grace leeching resources, manipulating board members, pulling strings behind the scenes.

It was… strange to imagine.

Like trying to picture a building after you'd demolished half the foundation.

But it was also necessary.

Essential, even.

If the company was going to survive, it needed to be rebuilt from the ground up.

New leadership structure. New accountability measures. New safeguards against the kind of corruption and manipulation that had nearly destroyed everything my father had built.

I scrolled through Margaret's proposed organizational chart, making mental notes, flagging sections that needed revision.

Across the room, Amber sat curled up on the uncomfortable hospital couch, completely absorbed in a game on the tablet Mrs. Daniels had brought him.

His small face was scrunched in concentration, his fingers moving rapidly across the screen, occasional sound effects—beeps, chimes, explosions—filling the quiet room.

He looked… content.

As content as an eleven-year-old could be while spending Christmas morning in a hospital room.

The guilt twisted in my chest again, sharp and familiar.

He shouldn't be here.

He should be at home — either the Laurent mansion or the Walker estate, I didn't care which — surrounded by people, unwrapping presents, eating too much sugar, laughing.

Not sitting in this sterile room watching his father work while hooked up to machines.

I'd texted Cynthia.

Asked her to take him.

To give him the Christmas he deserved.

And she'd agreed.

She was coming.

Any minute now.

I glanced at the clock.

Almost time.

A knock sounded at the door.

Amber's head snapped up immediately, his face lighting up.

"Mommy!" he exclaimed, dropping the tablet and scrambling off the couch.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Cynthia.

She stepped inside carrying a large thermal flask, her expression soft as she looked at Amber, then more guarded as her eyes briefly met mine before flicking away.

"Hi, baby," she said warmly as Amber rushed to her.

She set the flask down on the small table near the door and knelt to hug him properly, her arms wrapping around him tightly.

"Merry Christmas, Mommy," Amber said, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," Cynthia replied, pulling back to look at him, her hands cupping his face. "Are you ready to come home?"

"Yes!" Amber said excitedly. "Are we going to have my chicken sauce now?"

Cynthia smiled. "We'll have it when we get home. But first…"

She stood and picked up the flask again, crossing the room toward me.

My breath caught slightly.

"This is for you," Cynthia said quietly, setting the flask on the small rolling table beside my hospital bed.

I stared at it, then at her.

"For me?" I repeated.

"Yes," Cynthia said. "I made extra. I thought… you shouldn't spend Christmas alone without a proper meal."

My throat tightened.

She'd made food.

For me.

After everything I'd said to her. After I'd pushed her away. After I'd told her she didn't need to be here anymore.

She'd still brought me food.

I didn't know what to say.

Part of me wanted to refuse it—to hold onto my pride, to maintain the distance I'd put between us, to prove that I didn't need her charity.

But the truth was…

The door closed softly behind them.

And I was alone.

Again.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, listening to the silence, feeling the emptiness of the room pressing down on me.

Then my stomach growled.

Loud, insistent and demanding.

I looked at the flask sitting on the table beside me.

And I couldn't wait any more.

I reached for it, my hands moving quickly, almost desperately, unscrewing the lid.

The moment I opened it, the aroma hit me.

Rich, savory, warm, in fact, intoxicating.

My mouth watered instantly, my stomach clenching with hunger so intense it almost hurt.

I hadn't realized how starving I actually was until that moment.

How much my body had been craving real food—not the bland hospital meals, not the IV nutrients, but real, homemade, lovingly prepared food.

The kind Cynthia used to make.

The kind I hadn't tasted in three years.

I grabbed the spoon she'd thoughtfully included, my hands trembling slightly.

And I took a bite.

The flavor exploded across my tongue.

I closed my eyes, and for just a moment, I was transported back.

Back to the Walker mansion.

Back to Sunday dinners.

Back to when Cynthia would cook for me, her hands moving with practiced ease in the kitchen, the house filled with warmth and laughter and the smell of her cooking.

Back to when I had everything.

And didn't even realize it.

My throat tightened painfully.

And I kept eating because it was the closest I'd felt to home in years.

This was all I had left of what we used to be.

And I was going to savor every last bite.