The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 41

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Anna’s POV

The wine glass trembled in my hand as 1 stared at my phone, scrolling through yet another article about Cynthia’s triumphant

return to Missford.

“Chel Cynclair’s Maison Cynclair continues to dominate the culinary world.”

“Michelin star chef: The inspiring transformation of…”

“Mystery woman at Grand Prix revealed to be culinary icon…”

I threw the phone across the room. It bounced off the couch cushion and clattered to the floor.

Everything was falling apart.

Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d sacrificed, everything I’d carefully built over the past three years was crumbling like a sandcastle against the tide of Cynthia’s return.

I’d tried the university students, paid good money to have them turn other students against her by asking personal questions, only for them to give up when she shuts them up with an intelligent and dismissing response.

I’d tried Marcus Chen. Failed.

And then the gala. God… I could still feel the humiliation burning in my chest. Standing there in my carefully chosen dress, watching Ethan dance with her. Watching him look at her the way he’d never looked at me. Like she was the only person in the room. Like the past three years hadn’t happened. Like I didn’t exist.

She’d set me up. She’d known exactly what she was doing… baiting me, making me reveal myself. And I’d walked right into it like an idiot. Ethan hasn’t said a proper word to me since then.

Cynthia just kept succeeding. No matter what I threw at her, she dodged it, overcame it, came out looking even better than before.

How?

How was the pathetic, mousy woman I’d watched shrink into the background for years suddenly this confident, accomplished, untouchable figure?

It wasn’t fair.

I’d been there. I’d been the one comforting Ethan when she left. I’d been the one raising Amber, playing mother to a child that wasn’t eyen mine. I’d been the one managing her position, attending the social functions, being the perfect partner.

And for what?

Ethan still wouldn’t marry me.

Three years. Three years of waiting, of being patient, of telling myself it was just a matter of time. He felt guilty, I’d told myself. He needed time to process his wife’s death. It was natural. It was temporary.

But now she was back.

And everything I’d convinced myself about why he wouldn’t commit, it was all a lie, wasn’t it?

I picked up my phone from where it had fallen, ignoring the small crack that had appeared across the screen.

What would happen if Ethan brought her back? The thought made me want to scream.

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The humiliation and shame. After everything, after all the sacrifices I’d made, all the times I’d stood by his side pretending to be his partner, to be cast aside for a woman who’d abandoned him?

What would my friends say? The other socialites who’d watched me step into Cynthia’s role, who’d accepted me as the future Mrs. Walker? They’d laugh. They’d whisper. They’d pity me.

What would the world say? That I was the temporary replacement. The placeholder. The woman who’d warmed his bed until his real wife decided to come back.

No, I couldn’t let that happen.

I needed to do something. Cynthia had proven she could dodge the small attacks. She’d come prepared, fortified herself with success and connections and that infuriating confidence.

I needed to strike at the heart of what made her untouchable.

Her restaurant.

Maison Cynclair in Paris. Her crown jewel. The source of her fame, her credibility, her new identity.

If I could ruin that… if I could attack her reputation at the source, expose some scandal, plant evidence of health violations or financial fraud… it would send her running back to Paris to salvage her business. Away from Missford. Away from Ethan. Away from the life she’d abandoned and had no right to reclaim.

And without her pristine reputation as Chef Cynclair, she’d be nothing. Just Cynthia Walker again. The forgotten wife and abandoned mother.

The woman I’d replaced.

It wouldn’t be easy. But I’d come too far to give up now.

A wail pierced through my thoughts.

Hayden.

I closed my eyes, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves.

“Shut up!” I screamed toward the nursery. “Just shut up!”

The crying stopped abruptly, a moment of shocked silence, and then started again, louder, more insistent. Wailing now, that high–pitched infant shriek that seemed designed specifically to drive me insane.

“Fucking child,” I muttered, pressing my fingers against my temples.

She was supposed to be my access. My ticket into the Walker family permanently. The leverage I needed to secure my place.

But instead, she was just another burden. Another screaming, needy reminder that I’d miscalculated.

The crying continued, relentless.

I grabbed my wine glass and drained it in one long swallow, then poured another. My hands shook slightly as I raised it to my lips.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I was supposed to be Mrs. Walker by now. The legitimate one. The respected one. The one who belonged.

If Ethan wouldn’t choose me willingly, I’d make sure Cynthia wasn’t an option.

I’d destroy her restaurant. Her reputation. Her perfect little comeback story.

Hayden’s crying intensified, and I felt something dark and twisted coil in my chest.

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“I said shut Up!” I screamed, slamming my glass down so hard the stem cracked.

Wine spread across the coffee table like blood.

Hayden wailed louder, and I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the rage that threatened to consume me.

This was Cynthia’s fault. All of it.

II she’d just stayed gone, if she’d just stayed dead like she was supposed to everything would have been fine.

I picked up my phone with trembling hands and opened my contacts, scrolling until I found a name Margot had sent to me to bring Cynthia down.

My thumb hovered over the call button for just a moment before I pressed it.

The phone rang once.

“Oui?”

“I have a job for you,” I said, my voice steady now, cold. “There’s a restaurant in Paris. Maison Cynclair. I need you to find something that will destroy its reputation. Health violations, financial irregularities, employee complaints. I don’t care what it is, as long as it’s damaging.”

“This will be expensive, mademoiselle.”

“I don’t care. Name your price.”

There was a pause, then a low chuckle. “Very well. I will be in touch.”

The line went dead.

I set the phone down carefully, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

It was done. The wheels were in motion.

Cynthia thought she could waltz back into Missford and reclaim everything she’d thrown away. She thought her success, her transformation, her new confidence made her untouchable.

She was wrong.

I would take everything from her, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

Hayden had finally quieted to soft whimpers.

I poured myself another glass of wine and raised it in a silent toast.

“To your downfall, Cynthia,” I whispered. “May it be as spectacular as your return.”

The wine was bitter on my tongue.

But not as bitter as the taste of being second choice.

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