Too Late for Sorry, Mr. Billionaire (Chasing my Wife Back) novel Chapter 44

THE black SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of the Harlow residence, its engine purring softly before going quiet. The gates had barely finished sliding shut when the front door flew open.

Mrs. Harlow stood there, hands clasped tightly to her chest, eyes glistening as she stared down the walkway like she was afraid the image before her would vanish if she blinked.

The driver stepped out first, moved to the back, and opened the trunk.

Then Valentine appeared.

He had changed. He now looked taller, broader in the shoulders, his once-boyish face now sharpened by years and distance. But the moment his eyes landed on the woman standing at the door, everything else fell away.

“Mother,” he breathed.

That single word broke whatever composure Mrs. Harlow had been clinging to.

“Oh, my son,” she cried, hurrying down the steps, her arms already wide open.

Valentine barely had time to drop his backpack before she collided with him, wrapping him in a fierce, trembling embrace. He laughed softly, the sound muffled against her shoulder, and hugged her back just as tightly, lifting her slightly off the ground.

“I’m home,” he said, his voice thick.

She pulled back just enough to cup his face with both hands, examining him like she needed proof he was real.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “My goodness… look at you. You have grown so much.”

He smiled, that familiar, warm smile that made her chest ache.

“You said that the last time we video-called.”

“And I will say it every time,” she replied, swatting his arm lightly before pulling him into another hug. “Do you know how long I have waited for this day?”

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

She shook her head immediately.

“No. No apologies. You did exactly what you were meant to do.”

Behind them, the house help, Aisha, hovered excitedly, her hands clasped together.

“Welcome home, sir,” she said warmly.

Valentine turned to her and smiled.

“Thank you, dear. It is good to be back.”

Mrs. Harlow straightened, wiping her eyes quickly as if suddenly aware of herself.

“Aisha,” she said briskly, “take his bags to the east wing. The room next to Amelia’s old room.”

“Yes, ma,” Aisha replied promptly, already reaching for the luggage.

Valentine paused.

“You kept that room?”

Mrs. Harlow glanced at him.

“Of course I did. That was your room.”

Aisha wheeled the bags inside, and Mrs. Harlow linked her arm through Valentine’s, guiding him into the house like she feared he might disappear if she let go.

The living room felt just as he remembered— warm, elegant, familiar. The same portraits on the walls. The same faint scent of lavender.

They sat together on the couch, close enough that their knees touched.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other.

Then Mrs. Harlow sighed deeply.

“You have no idea how empty this house felt without you.”

Valentine’s smile softened.

“You had Amelia and Claire, mom.”

She chuckled.

“Those girls? Always busy. Amelia always running around like the world will collapse if she rests. Claire always running off.”

He laughed.

“Some things never change.”

Her expression shifted, affectionate and wistful.

“Do you remember when you first came here?”

He nodded slowly. “I do.”

“You were so small,” she continued, her voice gentle. “So quiet. You barely spoke for weeks.”

Valentine looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t know how to. Everything felt… gone.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“You were grieving. And you were a child. You had every right.”

He swallowed.

“You didn’t have to take me in.”

She frowned slightly.

“I had to. You were my sister’s son.” Then more firmly, “You were my son.”

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