Chapter 18
I got up and walked over to my desk. Pulled open the drawer, the one I never let anyone touch.
There it was.
A photo of Amelia. Laughing.
Sunlight catching her hair. Sitting on the edge of the yacht we used to sneak away to when I was still pretending to love her more than my ambition. When her smile could make me forget board meetings and quarterly targets.
I sat down, the photo trembling in my fingers.
She was so damn beautiful. And she was mine.
And I destroyed her. For what? For Caroline? For a daughter that may not even be mine? For a business I no longer fucking control?
I bowed my head.
For the first time in years–I cried. Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears falling down the face of a man who finally realized he traded a diamond for a damn illusion.
And lost everything. Because of me.
I tried reaching out to Amelia.
Burner phones, old emails, even the fucking assistant who used to hate my guts–nothing.
Blocked.
Everywhere. It’s like I died in her world. Like I never even existed.
I asked one of my lawyers to draft something sincere–an apology letter, maybe an NDA–wrapped settlement proposal. He stared at me like I was asking him to resurrect a ghost.
Then came the real bomb.
“Rodrigo family’s suing you,” my lawyer said, flipping through the files like they were reading off a death sentence. “IP theft, hostile takeover of joint assets, data manipulation. They’ve traced at least six shell companies to your private accounts.”
I blinked. “That’s impossible. Those companies weren’t-”
“They were,” he cut in. “And Adrian Rodrigo, Amelia’s brother’s signature is on the cease–and–desist. They’re not just coming for your money, Favio. They’re coming for your legacy.”
I leaned back in the leather chair. Cold sweat prickled down my neck. I always thought I was the storm in any room.
Turns out, Amelia is the fucking hurricane.
I poured myself another drink. The scotch tasted like betrayal and regret.
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Then Caroline walked in.
Silk robe tied just loose enough to tease. That perfectly calculated pout on her lips like she was some savior in stilettos. Every inch of her screaming “let me fix this.”
She sat on my lap without asking, arms curling around my shoulders like poison ivy.
“We can get through this, baby,” she whispered against my ear, her breath sweet like she timed the damn perfume. “We’re still strong together. All we have to do is shut the world out–remember who we are.”
I didn’t even flinch. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her.
I just looked her straight in those deceitful eyes and said it.
“I made you my everything.” My voice was calm. I wasn’t yelling anymore. That was the scary part. “Now I see you were nothing.”
She froze like I slapped her. I stood, letting her slide off my lap like she weighed nothing. She was too stunned to speak, and I was too tired to pretend. I walked away. Didn’t even look back.
The penthouse is a tomb now.
Silence that screams. Curtains closed like I’m hiding from the sun and the world.
No press calls. No board meetings. My “friends“? Ghosted. They loved me when I was untouchable.
Now I’m just… that guy who got outplayed by a woman he broke.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the TV. One of those glossy gossip segments came on. Usually I’d roll my eyes. But then-
Her face.
Amelia.
Wearing a satin–black dress that melted against her like it was custom–designed by revenge itself. Laughing–laughing–beside Luther fucking Castren. I leaned forward. She looked different now. Stronger. No, freer. Lighter.
The reporter was gushing.
“Amelia Rodrigo, heiress and CEO of the revived Rodrigo dynasty, dazzles tonight as she enters the Gala of Shadows in Milan with international investor Luther Castren. Industry’s been calling her the billionaire phoenix–and tonight, she proves it.”
Then came the punch straight to my already cracked ribs. The reporter turned to Luther with a smirk.
“Mr. Castren, are you courting Ms. Rodrigo? The public’s dying to know.”
Luther, in that calm, smooth tone, smiled and said:
“Amelia doesn’t know it, but since university, I’ve admired her. I loved her before. I love her now. If she’s ready to accept my heart, I’ll marry her in any church she wants. Cathedral or
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chapel–I’ll be there waiting.”
I didn’t breathe for a second. I just sat there like a man watching the world he thought he built get handed to someone who actually deserved it.
She didn’t even need to speak. She already won.
I grabbed the whiskey. Didn’t bother with a glass this time. Just downed it. Let it burn. Let it remind me what guilt tastes like. And for the first time in my goddamn life…
I whispered it out loud.
“She’s not done yet. And I deserve everything she’s bringing.” Because I do. I fucking do.
CAROLINE’S POV
I must’ve watched that damn interview ten times now. There he was, Luther Castren–the international, clean–cut, billionaire dreamboat–looking at Amelia like she was the last breath of air in a drowning world. And that sickening part? She ate it up. Smiling like the goddess of vengeance, floating around in that couture dress while I sat here drowning in disgrace.
“If she’s ready to accept my heart, I’ll marry her in any church she wants…”
I threw my phone across the sitting room. It cracked against the fireplace. Good. I wanted to crack everything. Mirrors, windows, Amelia’s perfect fucking smile.
Ahh! I wanted to scream. To lashed out.
They were outside, the reporters. Camped out like hyenas. I could hear them even through the thick glass.
“Caroline Cunningham–cheating heiress!”
“Baby Scandal Rocks Cunningham Legacy!”
“Fake Illness? Fake Baby? Real Fallout!”
Bastards. All of them.
I glanced in the mirror. My eyes were wild, smeared with tears and last night’s makeup. I smeared on fresh lipstick, powdered my face, and put on the sweetest, softest mask I’d
ever worn.
Time to play helpless again.
