Seducing my Ex-husband back (Claire) novel Chapter 15

Chapter 15

THE CHESSBOARD

~ALEXANDER’S POV~

The sapphire engagement ring catches the light as I slide it from her finger.

Claire stands motionless in our penthouse bedroom, city lights painting her skin in shades of silver and shadow.

She’s breathtaking….always is….but tonight there’s something different. Something distant.

Something that doesn’t belong to me.

I have undressed countless women. Made them arch and beg and forget their own names. But with Claire, it’s never been about conquest.

It’s been about worship. About earning the right to touch something so perfect it makes my chest ache.

Tonight feels different.

I trace the zipper of her white dress, the one that made every man at the party stare like wolves in tuxedos. I remove the material from her shoulders with slow, respectful fingertips.

She should melt into my touch. Should turn in my arms and let me chase away whatever shadows are haunting her.

Instead, she flinches.

Not from fear–I had recognized that instantly and stopped. This is something else. Something that makes my jaw clench and my control slip another notch.

“You’re not here with me, are you?”

The words come out rougher than I planned. Claire blinks slowly, like she’s rising from underwater.

“I’m tired,” she says, but her voice lacks belief.

“That’s not an answer.”

Her lips curve in something that might be a smile if it had any warmth. “It’s all you’re getting.”

She turns away, sliding beneath the cotton sheets without looking back. Dismissing me. In my goddamn bedroom.

I stand there, watching her pretend to sleep. Rage and something uglier burn in my chest.

I can smell it on her–not perfume, not champagne.

Something else. Someone else.

‘Richard Blackwood.‘

The name sits in my mind like poison. I’ve spent months building the perfect life for her. Giving her everything she could want.

Protection. Love. A future without limits.

And she’s still thinking about the man who destroyed her.

The next morning, I met Desmond in a private room at the Carlyle. The coffee is perfect. The privacy, absolute. He slides a thick folder across the mahogany table like he’s dealing cards.

“Blackwood Industries is losing a lot of money,” he says, his voice flat. “The international growth was just an illusion.”

“They’re highly leveraged.”

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I browse the papers, taking in the figures.

It’s even worse than I imagined, Richard has been stealing from Joshua to settle with Connkr, managing loans and investors like a desperate circus performance.

“How long before it collapses?”

“Six months, maybe less. Unless they find a major investor willing to throw good money after bad.”

“What about Mercer Holdings? They’re his biggest backer.”

Desmond’s smile is predatory. “Funny you should ask. Word is they’re getting nervous. Stock prices, missed payments, whispers about instability. They’re looking for an exit plan.”

“Buy them out.”

“Sir?”

“Buy out Mercer’s stake in Blackwood Industries. Quietly. Use shell companies, offshore accounts…. I don’t care what it costs.”

Desmond raises an eyebrow. “That’s a significant investment in a failing company.”

“It’s not an investment.” I close the folder with intentional accuracy. “It’s strategy.”

Because if Claire insists on playing with fire, I’ll make sure I control the flames.

By midday, things are already moving.

From my corner office, I watch the city below while the team quietly follows the plan.

No big announcements–just the usual shifts in control that happen every day in meeting rooms across Manhattan.

My phone buzzes with updates: Mercer shares bought through our Cayman branch.

The Blackwood team’s getting nervous. Richard Blackwood is calling last–minute meetings as his investors start to worry.

It should feel satisfying.

Instead, all I can think about is the way Claire looked last night. The distance in her eyes. The way she pulled away from my

touch like it burned.

I’ve given her everything. Made her the envy of every woman in New York. Built her a life of luxury and devotion that most people only dream of.

And it’s still not enough to erase the ghost of Richard Blackwood.

My assistant’s voice crackles through the intercom. “Mr. Hayes? Your car is ready.”

“Cancel my evening appointments,” I say. “I’m going home.”

I return to the penthouse after dark.

She’s in the living room, glass in hand, the hem of a short navy evening gown resting just above her thighs. She’s barefoot. Hair pinned up carelessly. The firelight dances on her skin.

She doesn’t look up as I enter.

“How was your day?” she asks, her voice carefully uninterested.

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“Eventful.” I move behind her, my hands finding her waist and pulling her back against my chest. “Yours?”

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