The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 7

#7

Chapter 7

**Ethan’s POV**.

The Bennett project had consumed me for forty–eight hours straight.

I’d camped out at the office, living on cold coffee and the adrenaline of closing what could be Walker Industries‘ biggest deal in five years.

Now, pulling into the driveway of my family home at six in the evening, I can’t help but remember my last conversation with Cynthia. She had overheard what Anna said back at the hospital and I know she’s going to want to talk about it.

She would start with a concerned face asking about my day, her gentle reminders that I’d missed dinner last night, her soft voice suggesting I rest. Questions disguised as care. Complaints wrapped in sweetness. (1)

I was too tired for it. (1)

I’d prepared myself on the drive home, mentally bracing for the inevitable guilt trip. I would be kind but firm. I would make it clear that my work was important, that my success provided for this family, and that she should just stop picking on Anna because Anna has done nothing wrong to her. Matter–of–factly, it is because of Anna that we are still alive. 1

I opened the door and went straight to the dining area, expecting the smell of food, but I met the table with a bowl of unfinished cereal that Amber had probably left in a haste. It was unlike Cynthia to leave the bowl here, she always enjoy doing chores and wouldn’t miss any slight eyesore like this.

“Hello?” I called out. “Cynthia?”

I made my way to the kitchen, expecting to find her probably dishing out food or something but the kitchen looked untouched, not a single pot on the stove, not a cutting board out.

No dinner? Was this some kind of joke? Was it April Fool’s Day, and had Amber convinced her to hide all the food as a prank? But in eight years, nothing like this had ever happened. 1

“Mother?” I called, moving toward the living room.

She emerged from the parlor, martini in hand, looking more annoyed than concerned. “Oh, you’re finally home.”

“Where’s Cynthia?” I asked, unreasonable irritation already rising in my chest. “Why isn’t dinner ready?”

“That crazy wife of yours disappeared for two days.” Mother took a sip of her drink. “I haven’t seen her since after that dinner with Mr. Brown. I assume she’s run off somewhere, probably looking for attention.” 2

The irritation froze. “Two days? And you didn’t think to…”

“Think to what? Call her? You’re her husband. Why didn’t you call her?” Mother’s voice was sharp. “Besides, at her age, she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’s probably sulking somewhere because you haven’t been paying her enough attention.” 1

I opened my mouth to respond, but Amber appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes.

“Dad? I’m hungry. Where’s Mom?”

“You haven’t seen your mother either?” I asked, my unease crystallizing.

“Not since almost two days now.” Amber yawned. “I had to call Aunt Anna to take me to school. She picked me up for lunch too.”

“She left without telling anyone where she was going?” I was trying to plece this together, trying to understand how Cynthia could simply vanish from a house full of people without anyone actually noticing until now.

“She loves drama,” Mother said dismissively. “This is just another one of her attention–seeking stunts. She’ll be back once she realizes no one is rushing to find her.”

“My mom actually imitated others and ran away from home,” he said, shaking his head at the absurdity. “Did she think anyone would really look for her?”

My son flinched, looking wounded, and I immediately felt a twist of guilt. But the feeling was overwhelmed by the uncomfortable crawling up the back of my neck.

Where was Cynthia? She definitely doesn’t have the boldness to leave for anywhere without letting me know, or at least taking Amber along.

No one answered. We just sat in the dining room, eating bad food, and the absence of Cynthia seemed to grow with every silent minute.

“She’ll come back. Women like that always do. They run off, realize no one cares enough to chase them, and slink back home with their tail between their legs.” My mother said as she munched on the terrible food.

That night, I lay in bed and couldn’t get the wrongness of it out of my thoughts.

The fact that Cynthia isn’t appearing with chamomile tea and that tired smile she always wore after a long day of serving everyone else’s needs.

No hands massaging the tension from my shoulders, my neck, the back of my head where stress always collected like weather.

I’d never realized how much I’d come to depend on those small rituals. How the rhythm of my evenings had been shaped by her presence…her care, her attention, the simple fact that she was there, making sure I was comfortable, that I had everything 1 needed.

I’d hate to admit but she had been very dutiful, now her absence is overwhelming my thoughts and I can’t bring myself to act worried over it, she is probably seeking attention, angry about the last conversation we had and the fact I didn’t fully pay attention to her about her headache complaints. .

Was I too harsh?

I reached for my phone, about to call her, then stopped myself. It was past midnight. And even if I called, what would I say? 1 wasn’t even ready for that conversation yet.

I really don’t want to hear her nag again about Anna.

I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Where the hell is Cynthia?