Too Late for Sorry, Mr. Billionaire (Chasing my Wife Back) novel Chapter 80

THE ex-lovers met in a hotel room that smelled faintly of vanilla air freshener and desperation.

Shantel had chosen the room herself— presidential floor, dim golden lighting, curtains drawn halfway to give the illusion of privacy without completely shutting out the city lights. She wanted the setting to speak before she did. She wanted him to see effort. To see sacrifice. To see that she was serious.

Charles had agreed to see her on one condition: she had to prove she truly wanted him back.

And Shantel had interpreted that in the most dramatic way possible.

So she booked the hotel. Ordered champagne chilling in a silver bucket by the bedside. And now she stood in front of the mirror wearing nothing but delicate lace underwear that hugged her curves like a promise.

Why not?

She was desperate— for him, for the lifestyle she believed he now possessed, for the rumors she had heard and seen on her phone screen about his sudden financial elevation. If winning him back meant seduction first and strategy later, then so be it. She would play her part perfectly.

A knock sounded at the door.

Her heart leapt.

She sprang to her feet, smoothing her hair, adjusting the strap on her shoulder, and rushed to the door. For a second she inhaled deeply, plastered on a sultry smile, and unlocked it.

Charles stepped in.

He looked devastatingly composed. Crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms. A watch that gleamed under the hallway light. His jawline sharper than she remembered. His expression unreadable.

She immediately threw her arms around him.

He did not hug her back.

There was a stiff pause instead, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

She ignored it.

Pulling back slightly, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek and shut the door behind him, turning the lock with a soft click.

“What is that?” he asked calmly. “Why are you locking the door? And why are you dressed like this?”

She smiled, slow and inviting.

“Come on. I haven't seen you this close in how many years now? And finally I get to see you and you are asking questions?” She laughed lightly. “Come, come.”

She took his hand and led him toward the bed. He followed, but not because he was drawn, because he was observing.

They sat.

“I miss you, my love. I still do,” she murmured, leaning forward to plant kisses along his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his lips.

Charles froze.

This was temptation in its rawest form.

All the years he had dated Amelia— now his fiancée, he had been disciplined, forced disciplined. He had kept his body under control, kept his desires bridled. Not even Amelia. Not another woman. He had been deliberate, restrained and patient.

And now here was Shantel. His ex. The woman who once knew his weaknesses intimately.

Her lips trailed down to his neck. Her fingers brushed his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

He felt his body responding against his will.

God.

He clenched his jaw.

She continued, pressing herself against him, her voice soft, breath warm against his skin.

“I never expected you would come. It has just been hard trying to reach you. You made it so difficult,” she whispered, kissing his ear.

He said nothing.

“Oh my… I have missed you so much. And I'm sorry for leaving. So sorry.”

Still nothing.

She began unbuttoning his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders slowly.

That was when he acted.

His hand shot out and caught hers firmly.

“Is this what you called me for?” His voice was no longer soft. “I thought you said you wanted us to talk.”

She blinked, momentarily thrown off.

“Yes,” she said lightly, trying to recover. “Aren’t we talking?”

He pulled his hand away from her and shifted slightly, creating space between them.

“Then talk.”

The air in the room changed.

Shantel adjusted herself on the bed, crossing one leg over the other, still trying to maintain her seductive posture. But his eyes were no longer lingering on her body. They were studying her face.

“I made a mistake leaving you,” she began. “I was young. Foolish. I thought I deserved more.”

“You thought I wasn’t enough,” he corrected flatly.

She hesitated.

“I thought you didn’t have ambition.”

He let out a dry laugh.

“Ambition.”

Silence hung between them.

She reached for his hand again, but he withdrew it.

“I heard you are doing well now,” she continued carefully. “Very well. Infact, I have seen it.”

There it was.

He leaned back slightly.

“And what does ‘very well’ mean to you?”

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