The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 51

Chapter 51

Cynthia’s POV

Nikolai and I parted ways at the airport terminal, both of us heading toward separate crises.

“I’ll visit you at the restaurant,” he said, squeezing my hand briefly. “As soon as I’m sure my father is stable. We’ll figure this out together.”

“Go,” I said, managing a small smile despite everything. “Your father needs you. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, his expression torn between worry for his father and concern for me.

I stood there for a moment, alone in the bustling terminal, before shaking myself into action. I had a restaurant to save.

The taxi ride to Maison Cynclair felt surreal.

Paris was waking up around me, cafés opening their shutters, early morning joggers along the Seine, the city I’d grown to love carrying on as if my entire world wasn’t crumbling. But as we turned onto Rue de Rivoli, my stomach dropped.

I could see the crowd from two blocks away.

Protesters. At least thirty of them, clustered outside my restaurant with signs and megaphones. “SHUT DOWN MAISON CYNCLAIR!” “POISON KITCHEN!” “HEALTH HAZARD!” Their chants carried through the taxi’s closed windows, angry and

relentless.

“Madame, are you sure about this?” the driver asked nervously, eyeing the mob.

“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure at all. “Pull around to the side street.”

I paid him quickly and stepped out, keeping my head down as I fumbled for my phone. I couldn’t walk through that crowd, they’d tear me apart.

Pierre answered on the first ring.

“Madame! Where are you?”

“Side street, near the delivery entrance. Can you come get me? The protesters…”

“I’m coming.”

Two minutes later, the service door cracked open and Pierre’s pale face appeared. He looked terrible with dark circles under his

eyes.

“Quickly,” he said, ushering me inside.

The moment the door closed behind me, the noise of the protesters dulled to a muffled roar. But the relief was short–lived.

The kitchen was chaos.

Boxes of supplies sat unopened. Stations were half–cleaned. Equipment was pushed aside haphazardly. It looked like a crime scene after the investigators had left.

And in the middle of it all stood my team. Sophie, Felicia, Marcel, Jean–Pierre, Amélie, Louis. All of them, still here, still in their uniforms despite everything.

“Madame Cynclair,” Sophie said, stepping forward. Her eyes were red–rimmed from exhaustion or tears or both. “‘You’re here.”

” came in here locked around all on thith, the prints who had its operate all still here? You should be hom

tow could we leave? Matred terrupted, his graft in “This is our restaura together. We’re not going to abandon it just be more per esedo

“We’re in this together, madame,” Sophie de query reve Ruppen

naded

I felt tears prick at my eyes, but I blinked them back. There wont be time for motion later Right

“Alright,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Then let’s figure et ses did the tower that at Cyber

Times

every health protocol to the letter. Someone planted that evidenc

“But who?” Pierre asked. “And how?”

That’s what we need to find out.” I turned to Louis, our tech manager. “The security footage Haw you reviewed

Louis’s face fell. “We’ve been over it, madame. Checked everything from the past six months. Harf sleepless nights going through every frame.” He shook his head miserably. “We found nothing. No suspicious activity. Ne unauthorized access, Nothing implicating anyone.”

1 frowned, processing this. “But the food agency claims they found rat droppings. Expired ingredients. If those things were planted, someone had to bring them in.”

“That’s what we thought too,” Louis said. “But the footage shows nothing.”

1 paced the kitchen, my mind racing.

If there was nothing on the security footage, that meant one of two things: either the evidence hadn’t been planted or someon had tampered with the footage itself.

“Le Jardin Secret,” Sophie suggested quietly. “They’ve always been jealous of our success. Maybe they…”

“No,” I cut her off. “Our competitors might be petty but I doubt they are capable of something this sophisticated.”

I pulled out my phone and dialed Nathaniel.

“Cici,” he answered immediately. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” I admitted, looking around at my devastated kitchen. “The protesters are still outside. The team has been through the security footage but found nothing suspicious.”

“Nothing at all?”

“That’s what they’re saying. But Nathaniel, someone had to plant that evidence. It didn’t appear out of thin air.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Cici, listen to me carefully. Don’t trust anyone right now. If someone deleted footage from your main system, they had access. That means it could be an inside job, or someone hacked your security.”

My blood chilled. “You think one of my own people…”

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