The Ex-Wife He Can’t Have novel Chapter 230

Sienna shot a nervous glance at a visibly annoyed Eleanor and quickly dragged her daughter back to her own room.

"Is this investment actually legitimate? Over the years, you've blown money on fashion, restaurants, and that so-called AI startup. You've burned through enough cash to last you a lifetime."

Natalie rolled her eyes impatiently. "Ugh, Mom, investments always have risks. You can't just expect to make money without taking a gamble. Don't worry, this project is totally legit. Once it takes off, the returns will instantly double."

After grabbing the bank card, Natalie affectionately planted two kisses on Sienna's cheek and bounced off happily.

When Sienna returned to the living room, Eleanor immediately lectured her. "You need to stop indulging Natalie. At the end of the day, she isn't Quincy blood. We can guarantee she never goes hungry, but you cannot let her bleed this family dry."

Sienna kept her head down and forced an apologetic smile. "I just think Natalie isn't a kid anymore. If she wants to start a business, we should do everything we can to support her."

Eleanor let out a cold scoff. "No matter how much you spoil her, she will never be your real daughter."

Sienna's fingers clenched tightly. She waited until the older woman finished venting her frustrations before rushing to her room, collapsing on the bed, and burying her face in a pillow.

A few moments later, her shoulders began to shake as muffled, heartbroken sobs echoed through the room.

Wasn't Eleanor the exact reason she had been torn away from her biological daughter in the first place? Now the old woman was tearing open her old wounds all over again.

She had been a member of the Quincy family for over twenty years. Even if she had never achieved greatness, she had poured her blood, sweat, and tears into this house.

Yet, this family—and Eleanor especially—had never, not for a single second, accepted her as one of their own.

Meanwhile, Jillian's quiet concern for Connor hadn't stopped for a single day.

Even without a single reply, she reliably sent him a message every single day, keeping him updated on the temperature and rain, endlessly reminding him to layer up and grab his umbrella before leaving the house.

A few days later, the skies finally cleared.

Natalie sat in a sun-drenched courtyard, surrounded by four or five friends and brokers who were desperately trying to rope her into an investment.

The man across from her, dressed sharply like a corporate elite, was enthusiastically pitching his vision.

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