The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Cynthia’s POV

I couldn’t stop smiling.

My hands trembled slightly as I stood in front of my closet, pulling out outfit after outfit, trying to decide what to wear. What does a mother wear to meet the son she hasn’t seen in three years? What says “I’m sorry” and “I love you” and “please forgive me” all at once?

My phone buzzed on the dresser. A text from Ethan.

“We can meet at the house or an enclosed restaurant. Whatever makes you comfortable. Just let me know.”

I stared at the message, my excitement dimming slightly as reality set in..

The house would be more cozy, more comfortable for Amber. It was his home, his safe space. Meeting there would feel natural for him, familiar.

But I couldn’t step foot in that house again.

–

Just the thought of it made my chest tighten. That house held too many memories too many nights spent crying in the bathroom, too many dinners where I’d sat alone at the table, too many moments of feeling invisible and unwanted.

And Grace. God, I wasn’t ready to face Grace again.

Amber would have to understand that an enclosed restaurant would be fine. Neutral territory. Safe.

I texted back quickly: “Restaurant, please. Somewhere private.”

His response came almost immediately: “Done. I’ll send you the details.”

I set the phone down and returned to my closet, finally settling on a soft cream sweater and dark jeans. As I was applying a light touch of makeup, my phone buzzed again.

Nikolai.

My heart did a small, unexpected flutter as I opened the message.

”

“Hey, hope you’re good. I’m just checking up on you. I have a class in a few minutes. What do you say about dinner this evening?

I smiled despite myself, reading the message twice.

Was he trying to hit on me?

No. That was ridiculous. There was no way a young, ambitious, and undeniably handsome professor of business would be

interested in an old cargo like me. 1

He was probably just being friendly. He knew me all the way from Paris and now we are somewhat like colleagues checking in on each other. That’s all.

Still, the message made something warm bloom in my chest. It was nice to be thought of. Nice to have someone care enough to check in,, someone that is not one of your over protective brothers.

I set my phone aside without responding, telling myself I’d reply later. Right now, I needed to focus on Amber. On what I was going to say. How I was going to explain three years of silence.

How do you tell a eleven–year–old that you left because staying was killing you? That you weren’t abandoning him, you were saving yourself?

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Would he even understand?

The questions spiraled through my mind as I finished getting ready, each one adding another layer of anxiety to the excitement I’d been feeling.

As I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, my phone rang.

Pierre. My manager at the Paris restaurant.

A cold spike of dread shot through me. Pierre never called unless something was seriously wrong. He was capable, experienced, someone I trusted completely to handle things in my absence.

I answered immediately. “Pierre? What’s wrong?”

“Madame Cynclair!” His voice was panicked, higher–pitched than I’d ever heard it. “Ma’am, it is very urgent!”

My stomach dropped. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“The health inspector came today,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Unannounced. They said there was an anonymous tip about violations. They tore through the kitchen, madame. Everything. They took samples, photographs, they interviewed the staff…”

“What?” I sank onto the edge of my bed, my legs suddenly weak. “We just passed inspection three months ago. We’re meticulous about standards.”

“I know! I know!” His voice cracked with stress. “But they said they found… madame, they’re claiming they found evidence of rodent droppings in the dry storage area. And expired ingredients in the walk–in.”

“That’s impossible,” I repeated, my voice sharper now. “You know how we run that kitchen. Everything is dated, rotated, documented…”

“I know,” he said miserably. “But madame, there’s more. They also received complaint, multiple complaints, about food poisoning. From customers who claim they ate at Maison Cynclair in the past month.”

My blood ran cold. “Food poisoning? We haven’t had a single complaint…”

“Exactly!” Pierre interrupted. “Not one complaint through our normal channels. But suddenly, there are three formal complaints filed with the health department. All within the past week.”

I stood up, pacing now, my mind racing. “This doesn’t make sense. It’s not neutral.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Pierre said. “But madame, they’re threatening to shut us down. Temporarily, pending a full investigation. The press has already gotten wind of it. There are reporters outside asking questions about the ‘health violations at the acclaimed Maison Cynclair.“”

No. No, no, no.

This couldn’t be happening. Not when everything was finally coming together.

—

every

“Pierre, listen to me,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm even as panic clawed at my insides. “Document everything. Every single thing they touched, looked at, took. Get our lawyers on the phone immediately. And pull all our records inspection report, every inventory log, every supplier invoice for the past six months. I want everything ready for review.”

“Yes, madame. But…” He hesitated. “Madame, I think you need to come back to Paris. This is… this is bad. Very bad. If we can’t clear this up quickly, the damage to our reputation…”

“I know,” I cut him off. “I know what’s at stake. I’ll handle it,” I said, even though I had no idea how. “Just hold down the fort until I figure out next steps.”

“Yes, madame.”

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