The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Ethan’s POV

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We arrived at the restaurant at 2:30 PM, thirty minutes early because Amber had insisted we couldn’t be late.

“What if Mom gets there first and thinks we’re not coming?” he’d said in the car, his leg bouncing with nervous energy.

Now, sitting in the private dining room I’d reserved, I watched my son arrange and rearrange the items he’d brought with him. A folder of drawings he’d made over the past three years. A handmade card with “Welcome Back, Mom” written in his careful handwriting.

“Do you think she’ll like these?” he asked for the third time, holding up a drawing of our family–him, me, and Cynthia, all holding hands under a bright sun.

“She’ll love them,” I assured him, my throat tight.

I checked my watch. 2:45 PM.

Fifteen minutes until Cynthia was supposed to arrive.

My own anxiety was building, though I tried to hide it for Amber’s sake. What would I say to her? How would this work? Would she look at me with that same distant coolness she’d had at the university, or would there be something else?

Did it matter?

This wasn’t about me. This was about Amber. About giving my son the chance to reconnect with his mother.

But still, my palms were sweating.

3:00 PM came and went.

Amber sat up straighter every time the door to our private room opened, his face lighting up with hope, only to fall when it was just a server checking on us.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything while you wait?” the waiter asked.

“Water, please,” I said. “And maybe some bread for the table.”

Amber wasn’t hungry, he was too nervous but I needed something to do with my hands.

3:15 PM.

“She’s probably just stuck in traffic,” Amber said, though he was starting to fidget more. “Traffic in Missford can be really bad, right Dad?”

“Right,” I agreed. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

I pulled out my phone and stared at Cynthia’s contact. Should I call her? Text her?

No. Give her time. She said she’d be here. She’ll be here.

3:30 PM.

My anxiety was shifting into worry. I tried calling.

The phone rang once, then went straight to a generic voicemail message. “The number you have dialed is not available. Please try again later.”

Not available?

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I tried again. Same result.

“Is everything okay, Dad?” Amber asked, noticing my frown.

“Everything’s fine,” I lied. “I’m sure she’s just… her phone might have died. Or maybe she’s driving and can’t answer.”

But the knot in my stomach was growing tighter.

There was no way Cynthia would stand us up. She had called herself. She had asked for this meeting. She wanted to see Amber.

Right?

4:00 PM.

Amber had stopped talking. He just sat there, staring at the entrance to our private room, his folder of drawings clutched in his hands.

“Dad,” he said quietly. “Do you think Mom forgot?”

“No,” I said immediately. “She didn’t forget, buddy. Something must have come up. An emergency or…”

“What kind of emergency?” His voice was small, hurt.

“I don’t know. But I’m sure she has a good reason for being late.”

Did I believe that? I wanted to believe that Cynthia hadn’t just decided not to show up, that she hadn’t gotten cold feet and abandoned this meeting without even a phone call.

But with every passing minute, doubt crept in deeper.

4:30 PM.

Amber was tired now. I could see it in the way his shoulders had rounded, the way his eyes had lost that bright, hopeful shine they’d had when we first arrived.

He’d been staring at the entrance for two hours, watching every single person who walked past with desperate anticipation.

And his mother hadn’t come.

“Amber,” I started gently. “Maybe we should…”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “We’re waiting.”

“Buddy, it’s been an hour and a half. Maybe your mom got held up with something important…”

“Then she’ll be here soon!” He looked at me with fierce determination, but I could see the tears gathering in his eyes. “We can’t leave, Dad. What if she shows up right after we go? What if she thinks we’re the ones who didn’t want to see her?”

The logic was heartbreaking.

“Okay,” I said softly. “We’ll wait a little longer.”

5:00 PM.

Two hours late.

I’d tried calling Cynthia six more times. Every time, the same message: number not available.

I’d texted her. No response. The messages showed as delivered but not read, it all made me furious and sick all at once.

“Amber,” I said, my voice more firm now. “We should go. Your mother… she must have been very busy. We can try to reschedule

S9

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“No.” Amber’s voice cracked “Please, Dad. Just a little longer.”

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