The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 254

Chapter 254

Cynthia's POV

When Grace finally finished her twisted monologue, Ethan's eyes searched my face, looking for shock, for denial, for some sign that Grace's story was a complete fabrication.

But I couldn't give him that.

Because I wasn't entirely clueless.

I'd known pieces of this for three years now.

Not all of it — Grace had filled in gaps I'd never known existed, had connected dots I'd never even seen — but enough.

Enough to know that my life had been built on lies.

I met Ethan's gaze, and the devastation I saw there made my chest ache.

His face was covered in blood — from his nose, his split lip, the gash above his eyebrow where Pascal's fist had connected particularly brutally. Dried streaks of it had tracked down his jaw and onto the collar of his shirt, darkening the fabric. He'd stopped trying to blink away the blood pooling near his eye. He'd just… stopped. Like his body had quietly accepted that this was what things were now, and fighting it was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He looked like he'd been through hell.

And somehow, the betrayal in his eyes hurt worse than any physical wound.

Grace straightened, looking supremely satisfied with the chaos she'd created.

"Well," she said brightly, as if we'd just finished a pleasant afternoon tea instead of her revealing decades-old kidnapping conspiracies. "I'm exhausted. All this talking has worn me out."

She turned toward the warehouse exit, gesturing for Pascal to follow.

"I'll visit you both again tomorrow," Grace continued conversationally. "With the documents for Ethan to sign. Properly notarized, of course. We wouldn't want any legal complications."

She paused, her gaze landing on me.

"I'm sure you're not hungry," Grace said, her tone almost pleasant. "After all, I saw you both enjoying that Christmas sauce when I came to the hospital. Such a touching scene — the devoted wife bringing food to her ailing husband."

Her expression shifted into something colder.

"I really hoped for that Christmas sauce, you know," Grace continued, her voice taking on a wistful quality that felt deeply wrong. "If only I could have a taste of it again. You really are an excellent cook, Cynthia. Harold used to rave about your meals."

She smiled.

"One of the few things you were actually good for," Grace added.

The words landed like a slap, but I kept my face neutral.

I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"Anyway," Grace said, turning back toward the exit. "I'll return with the documents tomorrow. In the meantime, you two should enjoy each other's company. You have so much to talk about, after all."

She laughed — that same cold, sinister sound that had haunted my childhood.

Then she left, Pascal following close behind her, his expression as blank and emotionless as ever.

Tied to chairs in a freezing warehouse.

Alone.

The cold had gotten worse somehow, or maybe I was just more aware of it now that there was nothing left to distract me from it. It pressed in from every direction — through the thin fabric of my clothes, through the concrete beneath my feet, through the ropes that held my wrists in place. I focused on it, on the physical reality of it, because focusing on the cold was easier than focusing on Ethan. Easier than sitting with the weight of what Grace had just unloaded into the room and watching it settle over everything like ash.

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, my heart pounding, my hands trembling against the ropes.

I didn't want to look at him again.

Didn't want to see the questions in his eyes, the hurt, the betrayal.

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

Then Ethan spoke.

His voice was rough, strained, barely above a whisper.

"You're a Laurent?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and loaded with everything we'd never said.

I closed my eyes, tears sliding down my cheeks.

"Yes," I whispered.