The Jilted Wife's Spectacular Billionaire Return

Five years later. The bright lights of Times Square flashed across the screen, transitioning to the arrivals board at John F. Kennedy International Airport. Eleonora walked out of the VIP terminal. She wore a tailored beige trench coat over a simple black dress. A pair of oversized Tom Ford sunglasses hid her eyes. Her posture was straight. The timid, broken girl from five years ago was gone. Her five-year-old son, Noah, gripped the edge of her coat. His knuckles were white. His large blue eyes darted around the crowded terminal. He bit his lower lip, refusing to make a sound. Eleonora stopped. She felt the tension radiating from his small body. She knelt down on the polished floor. She ignored the people rushing past them. She wrapped her arms around Noah and pulled him into a warm hug. "It's okay, baby," she whispered in English. "You're safe. Mommy is right here." Noah buried his face in her neck. He didn't speak. He hadn't spoken a word in two years. A black Maybach idled at the curb outside the terminal. A driver in a crisp suit opened the rear door. He took their luggage without a word. Eleonora lifted Noah into the spacious back seat. She slid in beside him and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were calm and calculating. She pulled a heavily encrypted tablet from her Birkin bag. She typed a long string of code into the black screen. The screen flashed green. It split into two video feeds. On the left was Leo. He wore a black hoodie. His fingers were a blur over his mechanical keyboard. "Mommy," Leo said, not looking up from his screen. "I wiped your entry records from the federal database. Ghosted. No one knows you landed." On the right was Chloe. She wore a miniature Chanel tweed jacket. She rolled her eyes. "New York fashion is so boring," Chloe complained, adjusting a pearl clip in her hair. "Why did you have to go there?" Eleonora smiled. The tight feeling in her chest loosened. "Be good for Aunt Allyson in Geneva," Eleonora said. She turned the tablet so the twins could see Noah. Noah raised a small, trembling hand and waved at the screen. Eleonora ended the call. The Maybach glided through the heavy Manhattan traffic. They pulled up to an ultra-luxury high-rise building right on the edge of Central Park. Eleonora held Noah's hand as they took the private elevator to the penthouse. The apartment was massive. The walls were painted a calming blue. The ceiling in Noah's bedroom was covered in glowing stars. After tucking Noah into bed for a nap, Eleonora walked into the home office. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. She looked down at the city. This city had almost killed her. She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. She walked over to the mahogany desk. A thick folder sat in the center. It contained brochures for the Manhattan Institute of Special Education. It was the top facility in the country for treating childhood trauma and mutism. She opened the folder. She flipped through the pages of doctor profiles. Then, she turned to the back page. The list of corporate sponsors. Her eyes locked onto the largest logo at the top. Holloway Group - Primary Benefactor & Honorary Board. Eleonora's breath hitched. Her fingers clamped down on the edge of the thick paper. A phantom heat licked at her skin. The smell of smoke and bleach filled her nose. The memory of that hospital room crashed over her. She slammed the folder shut. Her chest heaved. She reached for her phone. She needed to tell her assistant to find another school. Anywhere else. But as she picked up the phone, she looked through the open door of the office. She could see Noah sleeping in his bed. His small chest rose and fell. This school had the best neuro-psychologists in the world. Noah needed them. Eleonora closed her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced the panic down into a dark box in her mind and locked it. She tossed the phone back onto the desk. She wasn't running anymore. She walked over to the crystal decanter on the bar cart. She poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a glass. She threw her head back and swallowed it in one burn. A few blocks away, on the top floor of the Holloway Group headquarters. Butler sat behind his massive desk. He stared at a legal document, but he wasn't reading the words. Five years had carved harsh lines into his face. His eyes were darker, colder. They looked like shattered glass. Jesse Meyer knocked twice and opened the door. He held a silver tablet. "Sir, your schedule for tomorrow," Jesse said, keeping his voice low. Butler didn't look up. "What is it." "The annual inspection at the Manhattan Institute of Special Education. You are scheduled to cut the ribbon for the new sensory wing at 10:00 AM." Butler's jaw tightened. He hated public relations events. He hated being around people. But the charity was good for the board of directors. "Fine," Butler muttered. He reached for the mug of black coffee on his desk. It was steaming hot. He took a long drink. The liquid burned his tongue, but he tasted absolutely nothing. No bitterness. No roast. Just hot water. He swallowed it down, his face a blank mask. He turned his chair to look out the window at the darkening sky. Suddenly, a strange, heavy thump echoed in his chest. His heart skipped a beat, completely unprompted. Butler frowned. He pressed a hand to his sternum, waiting for the sensation to pass.