The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return

**Cynthia's POV**

The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport with a jolt that sent sharp pain radiating through my skull.

I'd endured fourteen hours of fluorescent lights and recycled air and the constant hum of engines that seemed to vibrate directly into my brain but I'd made it. I was in Paris.

The city I'd dreamed about for so long. The place where I would spend my final months alive.

I gathered my small carry-on and shuffled off the plane with the other passengers, my legs felt disconnected from my body, like I was walking on stilts, my eyes were going on a hula-hoop.

I made it halfway through the arrivals hall, and I couldn’t hold it any more, my muscles locked, the floor rushed up towards me, and in seconds, everything went black.

***

I woke to steady beeping and the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

Fucking hospital again.

For a moment, I thought I was back in Missford in that sterile room where a doctor had told me I had six months to live and the past few hours had been a dream — that I'd never made it to Paris.

"Ah, you're awake."

I turned my head slowly toward the voice.

A man stood beside my bed, probably in his thirties, on wire-rimmed glasses. A white coat with a name embroidered on it that I couldn't quite focus on.

His eyes were kind and concerned.

"How are you feeling?" he asked in English, though his accent was distinctly French.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," I managed. My throat was raw.

"That's not surprising. You had a grand mal seizure in the airport. You're lucky… you could have seriously injured yourself in the fall." He picked up a chart, scanning it with a deepening frown. "But what I don't understand is how you were allowed to board a plane in your condition."

I said nothing.

"You have a terminal brain tumor." He looked up from the chart, his expression somewhere between disbelief and anger. "Advanced stage, clearly causing severe neurological symptoms. Any competent medical professional would have deemed you unfit to fly. This is simply unreasonable!"

"I didn't give them any medical report concerning that," I said quietly.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. What matters is that you're here, and you need immediate treatment. We'll need to run more scans, consult with oncology, possibly look at surgical options…"

"No." I pushed myself up to sitting, ignoring the way the room spun. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving? Madame, you just had a seizure. You're in no condition to…"

"I'm discharging myself." I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement sent shockwaves through my head, but I forced myself to keep going. "Thank you for your help, but I'm leaving."

"You can't be serious." He moved to block my path. "Your condition is critical. You need to be hospitalized for observation at minimum. Without treatment…"

"I'll die. I know." I looked for my shoes, my bag, anything. "I'm going to die anyway. I'd rather do it on my own terms."

"This is madness…"

"Please." My voice cracked. "Just let me go."

"I can't do that. As your doctor…"

"I don't have any money." The words came out flat, defeated. "I can't pay for treatment. I can't pay for this hospital stay. I can barely afford a hotel room for a few nights. So please, just let me leave before the bill gets any higher."

He frowned, worried and trying to search my eyes for seriousness.

My trembling hands betrayed me and my bag slipped, spilling my stuff out.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said automatically, bending to help gather my things.

“Thank you…” I said, picking up my stuff as hurriedly as I could, then I noticed his hand hovered over my pocket watch, not quite touching it.

"Where did you get this?"

"What?" I reached for it, but he got there first, picking it up with the care of someone handling something impossibly precious.

The case had popped open from the impact of the fall, and inside was an old family portrait of a mother, a father, and four children… three boys and a little girl. I had had that pocket watch since the kidnap, since I was twelve and it was a wonder why the doctor stared at it like he was seeing a ghost.

The doctor stared at the photo like he was seeing a ghost.

"Where did you get this?" he repeated, his voice shaking now. "Please, I need to know. Where did you get this pocket watch?"

"I don't… what business is it of yours?" I tried to take it from him, but he pulled back, his eyes suddenly bright with tears.

"Please. Please, this is important. Where did you get it?"

The intensity in his voice made me pause. "I don't know. I've had it since... since I can remember. It was with me when…" I stopped, uncertain how much to reveal. "It's been with me my whole life."

He stared at me in disbelief

"What city did you fly from?" he asked rapidly. "How old are you? When is your birthday?"

"I… what? Why…"

"Please!" His voice cracked. "Please, just answer me."

"Missford. I'm thirty years old. My birthday is March fifteenth." The words came automatically, even as confusion swirled through me. "Why does it matter?"

"Do you have a birthmark?" He was standing now, moving closer. "A star-shaped birthmark? On your back, just below your left shoulder blade?"

What is he? Psychic? Because I have a birthmark exactly where he described. I'd always thought it looked like a small constellation.

"How do you know about that?" My voice came out as a whisper.

"Your parents," he said, and now tears were openly streaming down his face. "Are they still alive?"

"I’m adopted… " The memory was hazy, fragments of things I'd been told. "I don’t know who my biological parents are. What is with the interrogation, Doctor?"

"Oh my God." He sank into the chair beside the bed, the pocket watch clutched in his hands. "Oh my God, it's you."

"What are you talking about?" Fear crept into my voice. "Who are you?"

He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands shaking.

"This pocket watch belonged to my little sister," he said quietly.

My legs wouldn't hold me anymore. I sat back down on the bed, hard.

"That's impossible," I whispered.

"The photo." He opened the pocket watch fully, showing me the faded image. "This is my family. "

I looked at the photo and the thought of him being my family frightened me.

"No," I said, “You must be mistaken.”

"Please." his voice broke. "Please… can you wait here for a moment…" He grabbed my hand, desperate. "Please. Just wait. Just give me a few minutes."

I wanted to refuse, but he sounded so desperate and I was just too tired to even argue. “Okay…”

Relief flooded his face. "Thank you. Thank you. Just… Please don't leave. I'll be right back."

He rushed out, still clutching the pocket watch, leaving me alone in the sterile hospital room.

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands, expecting to have received countless texts and calls but I was in awe at how not even a single soul tried to reach out to me.

They probably haven’t noticed I’d been gone, or they just didn’t care.

That was enough for me to move on completely. I opened the back of the phone, pulled out the SIM card and dropped it in the trash bin beside the bed.

I didn't need it anymore.

I wasn't going back, I would just die peacefully here.

***

Fifty-three minutes later, the door burst open.

A woman rushed in, old but elegant in the way French women always seemed to be. Gray hair swept into a neat chignon, wearing a cream cardigan and pearl earrings even though she'd clearly been crying.

She stopped when she saw me, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, Cici."

And then she was across the room, pulling me into her arms, "My daughter," she sobbed into my hair. "My Cici. My baby girl."

I sat frozen in her embrace, my mind reeling.

"I don't…I’m not…" I tried to filter my words just so I don’t hurt her feelings.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, her hands cupping my face. "I have missed you so much Cici”

It was confusing and endearing how she knew my nickname is Cici.

"How… how do you know my nickname is Cici?" I asked, confused.

Her smile was sad. "Because I'm the one who gave it to you. Your full name is Cynthia Cynclair Laurent. But when you were little, you couldn't pronounce Cynthia. You called yourself Cici, and it stuck." She stroked my hair, and the gesture felt so natural, so right, that it scared me. "You were only twelve when they took you. My beautiful, bright girl."

"Cynclair Laurent," I repeated. The name felt foreign and familiar all at once.

The doctor, Julian, clue from his name tag, said quietly. "We immigrated to France after we thought you died."

"We spent years looking for you," his mother continued. "And then they found that poor girl's body, and we thought…" Her voice broke. "We thought we'd lost you forever."

I wanted to believe them. God, I wanted to believe that this was real, that I'd somehow stumbled into a miracle, but I couldn't let myself hope. Not when hope had been beaten out of me over eight years of marriage.

"We should do a DNA test," Julian said almost immediately, "I can have the lab run it tonight. Results in a few days…"

"No," I said.

They both stared at me.

"No?" the woman repeated. "But why?"

"Because I'm dying." The words came out matter-of-fact, empty of emotion. "I have a terminal brain tumor. Six months, maybe less.”

The silence was suffocating.

"So no," I continued, "I don't want a DNA test. Because if it turns out I'm your daughter, if this is all real, then you get to have me back for maybe six months before I die again. And that's…" My voice cracked. "That's crueler than not finding me at all."

The woman made a sound like she'd been struck.

"And I don't have money for treatment," I added, needing them to understand the full picture.

Julian ran his hands through his hair. "Cici… if you are Cici, money is the least of our problems. I'm a neurosurgeon. One of the best in the world. And if there's even a chance to save you, we'll take it."

"I don't want…"

The woman pulled me back into her arms, and this time I didn't resist.

"My darling girl," she whispered. "You've been hurting so much, haven't you?"

And maybe it was the gentleness in her voice, or the exhaustion, or it was the tumor eating away at my brain.

I sobbed into her shoulder like a child, and she held me like I was precious, like I mattered, like she would fight heaven and hell to keep me safe.

"Please," Julian said softly. "Please, just let me try. Let me do the scans, review your case, see if there's anything we can do…"

The woman pulled back, wiping tears from both our faces. "Will you let us try, Cici? Will you let your brother try to save you?"

I looked between them, the eagerness in their eyes, I should probably try this.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."

#6