Too Late for Sorry, Mr. Billionaire (Chasing my Wife Back) novel Chapter 63

SHANTEL’S room no longer looked like a bedroom. It looked like a war room.

The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing only a filtered stream of evening light to spill across the floor. On the bed lay printed photographs— Amelia stepping out of her car, Amelia at the resort café on a Tuesday afternoon, Amelia at a charity gala, poised and untouchable. Each picture had tiny notes scribbled beneath them in red ink.

**Tuesdays — 2:15 p.m. — corner seat.

Prefers latte. No sugar.

Usually alone.

Assistant sometimes calls at 2:40 p.m.**

Her desk was worse.

Magazines featuring Amelia’s interviews were stacked in uneven piles. One was flipped open to a page where Amelia spoke about resilience and rebuilding after betrayal. Shantel had underlined a sentence so hard the paper nearly tore.

*“Trust is fragile. Once broken, it changes you.”*

She smirked.

“Oh, it does,” she muttered.

Beside the magazines lay a notepad filled with rehearsed sentences.

*You inspire me, Ms. Harlow.*

*I have always admired how strong you are.*

*Women like us have to protect ourselves… especially from men who only see opportunity.*

She tapped the pen against her lips, thinking.

“No. That is too direct,” she whispered to herself, scratching the last line out. “Plant the seed, keep planting the seed, don’t throw the tree.”

She stood and paced the room slowly, heels clicking against the tiled floor. On her vanity mirror were sticky notes, small reminders to herself.

**Be humble.

Don’t overtalk.

Let her feel superior.

Make her comfortable.

Listen more than you speak.**

Shantel stopped before the mirror and studied her reflection.

“You left him once,” she told herself quietly. “You walked away because you thought you found better.”

Her jaw tightened.

“And now he is standing beside a billionaire. And a billionaire himself.”

Her eyes drifted back to the photographs on the bed. One of Charles smiling beside Amelia at an event. He looked polished, he looked comfortable, and he looked elevated.

She knew that look.

He didn’t own that lifestyle, he simply wore it.

And if Amelia was the source of it, then Amelia was the bridge.

Shantel returned to the desk and opened her laptop. Amelia’s social media page filled the screen. A recent post: a quote about loyalty, posted just a few hours ago.

Shantel leaned closer.

“Still preaching loyalty?” she murmured, amused. “Let’s see how loyal your man truly is.”

She opened another tab, Charles’s page. Scrolling, she studied.

Then she picked up her phone and began typing a draft message she had no intention of sending yet.

*It was so nice meeting you the other day, Ms. Harlow. I would love to continue our conversation. There is so much I have learned from watching you from afar…*

She paused.

From afar?

She deleted that part.

*…from following your journey.*

Better. This sounded better.

Her next visit had to feel natural, coincidental even. Not orchestrated. She would return to the café next Tuesday, of course. But this time she wouldn’t simply “run into” Amelia.

She would bring something.

Perhaps a book Amelia once mentioned in an interview. Yes. Something thoughtful. Something that would make her say, ‘Oh, she listens.’

Shantel walked back to the bed and gathered the photographs into a neat stack, aligning the edges carefully.

“This time,” she whispered, her lips curling into a thin smile, “we become friends.”

She turned off the lamp, leaving only the glow of her laptop illuminating the room.

On the screen, Amelia’s smiling face stared back at her.

And Shantel stared right back.

“Let’s see,” she said softly, “how strong you really are.”

***

The bar was alive in its usual sinful rhythm.

Dim golden lights hung from the ceiling, smoke curled lazily in the air, and music thumped softly in the background, just loud enough to energize, not enough to disturb conversation. The scent of alcohol, perfume, and ambition blended into one intoxicating atmosphere.

Marcus and Julian were in their element.

Two women, barely dressed, heavily made-up and overly enthusiastic, flanked them on either side. One leaned against Marcus’ shoulder, tracing invisible patterns on his chest while giggling at jokes that weren’t remotely funny. The other whispered something into Julian’s ear, making him burst into exaggerated laughter.

Charles, however, sat apart.

Not physically distant for he was right there on the plush leather couch with them, but mentally? He was miles away.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it move like it held answers. He took a slow sip. Nodded absentmindedly at something Marcus said. But he hadn’t contributed a single word in the last ten minutes.

“—and then she says she is studying law!” Julian laughed loudly. “Law at where? I*******m University?”

The women laughed too loudly.

Charles gave a half-smile.

Marcus noticed first.

He leaned forward, squinting at his friend.

“Hey man… what’s up with you?”

Charles didn’t respond immediately.

Julian glanced over too.

“Yeah, you look like someone confiscated your ATM card.”

The women exchanged confused looks, senile smiles on their faces.

Marcus waved them off gently.

“Ladies, give us a minute, yeah?”

They pouted but stood up, moving toward the counter.

Once they were out of earshot, Marcus turned serious.

“Talk.”

Julian leaned forward.

“What is wrong? Amelia finally caught you?”

Charles shot him a glare.

Julian raised his hands.

“Then what? I’m asking.”

Charles exhaled heavily and leaned back into the couch.

“It’s Amelia.”

Marcus groaned dramatically.

“Women. I knew it.”

Julian smirked.

“What now? She checked your phone? Hired a private investigator? Installed CCTV in your soul?”

Charles wasn’t amused.

He took another sip and stared straight ahead.

“It is three things.”

Marcus exchanged a look with Julian.

“Okay…” Marcus said slowly. “Start from one. Start somewhere, bro.”

Charles rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify