Too Late for Sorry, Mr. Billionaire (Chasing my Wife Back) novel Chapter 51

051

ADRIAN slept like a man exhausted by his own choices, flat on his back with the thin weight of the night’s decisions heavy on his chest. Beside him, Vivian lay with her head tucked against his shoulder, breathing slow and even. He had not gone into the bedroom after the argument with Amelia; instead, he had walked into Vivian’s waiting arms and let the night swallow his better judgement. 1

Morning light slipped through the blinds, striping the room in pale gold. Adrian stirred, blinked, and reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes. For a second he simply lay there, looking down at Vivian’s profile, the soft slope of her cheek, the artificial dark lashes resting against her skin, the small smile she had been unable to hide even in sleep. Guilt sat heavy in his ribs, but so did a stubborn animal, relieved that a choice, however wrong, felt decided for the moment.

Careful not to wake her, he eased Vivian’s arm from across his chest and shifted toward the edge of the bed. Thoughts crowded him: Hazel’s small face, Amelia’s hollowed eyes, the mess he had made by letting something that should never have been a secret become exactly that. He shook his head, trying to order his mind. He tugged on his shirt and began dressing, the motion methodical and automatic.

Vivian stirred then, blinking awake. For a heartbeat she watched him with sleepy devotion, her gaze brightening as she took in his movements. She sat up and moved behind him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing close so her cheek rested against the small of his back.

“Babe?” she murmured into his ear, breath warm against his nape. She kissed the tender skin there, soft and persistent. “What are you doing?”

He felt the need she wrapped him in and answered hoarsely, “I need to go home.”

The name of the place cracked through her like cold water. Her arms tightened a fraction.

“Home? But it is Saturday. It is the weekend.” She sounded genuinely baffled at the idea of leaving.

“That is why I need to go,” he said, the words flat. Responsibility pulled at him in ways better men would have

admitted sooner.

Vivian tried to stall him with a thousand sweet manipulations.

“Stay till noon, okay? Please.” She planted a trail of quick kisses along his neck, each press a small promise, a plea. “We can go buy lunch together. Just you and me.” Her voice dropped into something tender and conspiratorial. “Remember, peace. No shouting. Just… us.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the tenderness wash over him. The smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her palms against his stomach, the way she laughed softly when she kissed him, those small things were easy to live in. For a second, he almost let himself be selfish. But the other images, Hazel’s tiny fingers, Amelia’s silence, edged in like cold fingers prying his chest.

Vivian laughed, delighted that she had successfully worked him into a near-stay.

“You always know how to get to me,” he teased, lifting her face to press another kiss to the shell of his ear.

He gave a short breath that might have been a laugh or might have been sorrow.

“Just… a few hours,” he said finally, the compromise tasting like both mercy and defeat.

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Her grin widened into a triumphant smile. She tugged him back gently so he fell onto the bed beside her and she collapsed with him, both of them dissolving into a fit of quiet giggles and soft kisses. For the next breathless minute the world narrowed to the small room and the soft crash of their bodies on sheets, a fragile, guilty island where decisions could be paused, If only for a little while,

After lunch, Adrian drove home with the weight of unease pressing on his chest. Something had been gnawing at him all morning, and though he tried to shake it off, the silence inside the car seemed louder than his thoughts.

The moment he rolled into the driveway, his pulse quickened. Her car wasn’t in its usual spot. He stepped out quickly, trying to calm his nerves with shaky breaths, but as he entered the house, the truth became harder to ignore.

The living room looked emptier than it had that morning. The flower vase Amelia always kept by the window was gone, replaced by a hollow square of dust. Some of the family portraits that once lined the wall, gone, leaving pale rectangles against the paint. Hazel’s books, which usually littered the coffee table, had vanished too. A sharp chill ran down his spine.

“No… no, no,” Adrian muttered, striding toward their bedroom. He pushed the door open, almost violently, and

froze.

The wardrobe doors stood ajar, hangers swaying slightly, empty where Amelia’s clothes should have been. Her shoes, her perfumes, her little jewelry box, they were all gone. Even the blanket she always insisted on keeping at the foot of the bed was missing.

He rubbed his hand over his face, overwhelmed. He turned to leave, when something caught his attention, a folded sheet of paper lying neatly in the center of the bed. His throat tightened as he picked it up.

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