The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 312

Chapter 312

Ethan's POV

Cynthia was sobbing uncontrollably in my arms, her whole body shaking with the force of her tears, and all around us cameras were flashing.

Reporters shouting questions.

People pressing closer, trying to get a better view, a better shot, a better story for tomorrow's headlines.

I hated the intrusion, the violation of what should have been a private moment.

Hated that Cynthia's tears were being captured and commodified for public consumption.

We need to get out of here.

I looked over Cynthia's head, searching for someone who could help, and caught Kevin's eye.

He was standing a few feet away with Nathaniel, both of them clearly torn between wanting to come closer and respecting our need for space.

Kevin must have seen the desperation in my expression because he immediately stepped forward, gesturing toward a hallway that led away from the main lobby.

"This way," he mouthed, pointing.

I nodded gratefully.

"Come on," I murmured to Cynthia, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around her while gently guiding her toward the hallway Kevin had indicated. "Let's get you somewhere private."

She didn't resist.

Just clung to me, her face still buried against my chest, her hands fisted in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.

We moved through the crowd, Kevin and Nathaniel clearing a path ahead of us, blocking cameras and reporters with their bodies.

The detective appeared and barked orders at her officers to keep the press back, to give us space, her expression sympathetic despite the chaos we'd just brought into her station.

The hallway was quieter.

Away from the cameras and the noise and the suffocating press of bodies.

Kevin opened a door—some kind of conference room, I thought, with a long table and chairs and blessedly no windows to the outside.

"Take your time," Kevin said quietly. "I'll make sure no one bothers you."

He closed the door behind us, leaving Cynthia and me alone.

I guided Cynthia to one of the chairs and tried to sit her down, but she wouldn't let go.

Wouldn't release her grip on my shirt.

So I sat instead, pulling her down with me, letting her curl up in my lap like she needed to be as close as physically possible.

And she just kept crying.

Deep, wrenching sobs that tore out of her with a rawness that made my chest ache.

I held her tighter, pressing kisses to her forehead, her temple, her tear-stained cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I murmured between kisses. "I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I'm sorry you had to wait. I'm sorry for everything."

She still didn't speak.

Just cried harder, her hands moving over me—touching my face, my shoulders, my arms—like she needed to confirm I was real through physical contact.

I caught one of her hands and brought it to my lips, kissing her palm, her wrist, her knuckles.

And then I kissed her mouth.

Gentle at first, just a brush of lips meant to comfort.

But Cynthia responded immediately, kissing me back with a desperation that matched her tears, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.

The kiss deepened, both of us pouring six months of longing and relief into it.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Cynthia's eyes were still streaming with tears but she was looking at me now.

Her fingers traced over my bruises, so gentle it barely hurt.

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