The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 8

**Ethan’s POV**

The fourth morning without Cynthia, I woke with a headache so severe I could barely open my eyes.

I couldn’t place the cause of this very infuriating headache but then I remembered: I haven’t had coffee in days. Cynthia had prepared coffee every morning for eight years, ground fresh from beans she ordered specially, brewed to exact specifications I’d never bothered to ask about.

I stumbled downstairs, expecting my mother to have managed something. Instead, I found her reading the newspaper in the kitchen, a tea bag steaming weakly in a cup beside her.

“Did you make any coffee?” I asked, rubbing my temples.

She didn’t look up. “I don’t know how to use that fancy machine your wife insists on. Make it yourself or do without.”

I stared at the espresso machine, Cynthia had convinced me to buy it last year and I had no idea how to operate it. After eight years of marriage, my wife had made herself so essential that I couldn’t even manage basic self–care without her.

The irony would have been funny if it wasn’t so damning. 1

I made terrible coffee and drank it anyway, each sip a small punishment for disregarding her and taking her for granted when she was available.

By day six, the weight of Cynthia’s absence had become impossible to ignore.

The house was falling apart around us. Laundry piled up. Dishes accumulated. The refrigerator started to smell vaguely of rot because no one had bothered to clean it or plan meals. My mother complained constantly about the state of things but didn’t lift a finger to help. 1

“Why don’t we even have helps in this house?” she grumbled, conveniently forgetting that she’d laid off every domestic staff shortly after Dad died – because Cynthia had proven she could handle everything on her own. 1

Amber bounced between boredom and demanding entertainment.

I kept thinking about where Cynthia could be, why can’t I even reach her on phone?

I should ask a friend of hers… I picked up my phone, scrolling through contacts, and then realized I didn’t know any of her friends. Not even the ones she mentioned during college. I hadn’t seen her go out with anyone, not since our marriage.

“Dad?” Amber appeared in my office doorway, already whining. “Can you take me to Aunt Anna’s house? She said she’d take me to the arcade.”

I looked up from the emails I wasn’t actually reading. “Anna is not your mother, Amber. Aren’t you worried about your own mother?”

He pouted, his lip jutting out like he was five instead of eight. “Mom doesn’t let me do anything. I can’t play games, I can’t eat snacks, I have to go to bed before ten, and I even liave to wear the socks she picks out.” He said the last part with the indignation of someone discussing a grave injustice. “I have a lot more freedom when she’s not home. I hope she never comes back”

His words hit me like a fist. I should have corrected bin right then, but I’d enabled and encouraged his complaints against his mother for so long that trying to fix it now felt futile. I’d consistently sided with Anna, always dismissing Cynthia as too strict, too anxious and controlling. I’d treated her rules as oppressive, not recognizing them for what they were a mother’s effort to raise a healthy, balanced child.

He’d internalized my attitude so completely that he saw her absence as a relief rather than a loss.

What kind of parent had I allowed my wife to become in her own home?

#8

What kind of father had I become?

“Amber, when did your mother last make you breakfast?” I asked quietly.

He shrugged. “I dunno. A while ago?”

“And did you eat at all yesterday?”

“Aunt Anna took me to McDonald’s.”

I closed my eyes. “Go get your shoes. We’re not going to the arcade.”

**

+25 Bonus

I was in a meeting when my assistant interrupted, which was unusual enough to make my irritation spike until I saw her face.

“It’s the hospital,” she said quietly. “They said it’s urgent.”

I took the call in my office, my heart racing for reasons I couldn’t explain.

“Mr. Walker?” A professional voice came through. “I’m calling regarding your wife, Cynthia Walker. She was diagnosed with a critical neurological condition about a week ago, and she has already missed several appointments. I called to check if she’s started receiving treatment at another hospital.”

The room tilted.

“What?” (1)

“Uh… Am I not speaking to Mr. Walker?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, urgently. “What did you say about my wife?”

“Your wife has a malignant brain tumor. She was diagnosed a week ago, and the doctor in charge booked appointments for chemotherapy and counseling, but we haven’t been able to reach her. We tried contacting you as well.”

My mouth went dry. “Brain tumor?”

I remembered vividly when she told me she had a brain tumor, and I’d dismissed her, thinking she didn’t look like a brain tumor patient.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I need to speak to the doctor. I need to know more about her health, I…”

“At this time, the doctor is unavailable, but I can book an appointment with him. Based on the charts here, she has about six months if she doesn’t pursue treatment to extend her lifespan.”

What the fuck did I just hear?

“Book me an appointment, please.”

I needed to confirm this wasn’t a prank. I couldn’t afford to be fooled by Cynthia’s shenanigans… But what if it was true? Oh, God. 1

As I hung up, the full weight of what I’d done crashed down on ine.

I hired someone to find her immediately. Every resource at my disposal went into tracking down her credit cards, her phone, anything. I met with the doctor, who detailed her health condition.

Cynthia had been dying, and I didn’t know. She’d tried to tell me, but I kept dismissing; her. Dear Lord, what kind of husband

was I? 1

#8

+25 Bonus

It took two days… two days of hell where I barely slept, waiting for news–but finally, they found her.

She had a flight record to Paris, but beyond that, the trail went cold. No hotel bookings. No credit card transactions. No fucking ATM withdrawals! Where the fuck is she?

It was like she’d ceased to exist after arriving in Paris.

****

I started having nightmares when I shut my eyes to sleep, I guess guilt clouded my dreams.

Cynthia stood before me in her wedding dress, the exact wedding dress she’d worn eight years ago. But her face was haggard, and she was crying.

“Why don’t you love me?” she asked, her voice breaking. “I tried so hard, Ethan. I gave you everything. Why wasn’t I enough?”

“I do love you,” I tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come, I was the antagonist in my own dream, unable to speak when I tried to “Cynthia, I…”

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