Chapter 89

Chapter 89:
Stella shot Marc a look and rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by whatever nonsense he’d just said.
Even Steven, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines, finally lost his patience and said, “Mr. Walsh, let’s set the record straight—Ms. Gilbert isn’t here as anyone’s substitute. You’ve seen her ID. She’s not your long-lost wife; she’s Sylvia Gilbert, representing Nebula Group.
Frankly, your actual wife deserves better than a man who two-timed her. If you truly cared about her, you’d stop dragging innocent people into your mess and start paying attention to Ms. Smith.
The way things stand, Walsh Group and SummitRise Group have zero partnership now—and I can’t see that changing. Mr. Walsh, I think it’s time for you to go.”
Steven’s voice made it clear he’d reached the end of his tolerance. Marc flushed, embarrassment burning on his face.
With the entire office watching him like he was a joke, he finally rose from the couch, every ounce of swagger gone.
As he shuffled past Stella, desperate for one last lifeline, he murmured her name, almost pleading, “Stel…”
But Stella didn’t so much as glance in his direction, as if he’d vanished into thin air.
With her silence hanging heavy in the air, Marc hesitated briefly, then shoved the office door open and walked out.
Out in the car, Haley sat in the front seat, glancing nervously at Marc’s thunderous expression. She inhaled shakily and tried to smooth things over with a brittle smile.
“Marc, honestly, SummitRise Group just lost out on something great. If they won’t work with us, that’s their own misfortune—ah!”
Her words died in her throat. Marc, suddenly overcome with fury, lunged and wrapped his hand around her neck.
His grip tightened, his eyes burning with accusation. “Haley, was that deliberate? Why did you have to say that back in the office?”
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Haley’s eyelids fluttered shut, her face flushing red as she fought for air.
“Marc… I didn’t mean to… please… let go…”
Marc flung her aside with a savage jerk, sending Haley’s head crashing against the car window with a muffled crack.
“Out,” he snapped, his voice raw with fury.
Still gasping for air, Haley didn’t dare linger. She fumbled with the handle, tumbled out of the car, and barely had time to steady herself before Marc roared off, the exhaust burning in her lungs.
Left in the fading taillights, Haley’s rage boiled over. She stamped her foot into the asphalt, eyes blazing.
That wretched Stella—none of this would’ve happened without her!
Marc headed straight for home, the tension in his knuckles refusing to ease. For weeks now, he’d poured himself into restoring the villa, determined to resurrect every detail from before Stella’s departure. Every corner, from the custom sofas to the precise arrangement of the bedroom furniture, looked untouched, as if she’d never left.
Even the wedding portrait Stella had burned—he’d commissioned an identical one, and it was in its old place on the wall of the master bedroom.
Marc’s gaze lingered on the portrait—Stella’s hand resting on his arm, her smile warm and gentle. The image carved a fresh ache through his chest.
Memories of happier days crashed over him, each one clashing bitterly with her icy indifference now.
He couldn’t stand the reminder. Turning away, Marc yanked the bedroom door shut, the sound echoing through the empty villa. He didn’t dare look back at anything that might unravel him. Minutes later, he sped off, leaving the villa behind once more.
The bar pulsed with deafening music, the kind that rattled the glassware and made conversation impossible. Marc sat hunched over the counter, tossing back one drink after another, desperate to drown out any trace of Stella from his mind.
Someone stepped out of the restroom and caught sight of him, hesitating for a moment before breaking into a surprised grin. “Marc? Well, this is a surprise—I didn’t expect to bump into you here!” Marc hadn’t joined them for a night out in more than half a year. Ever since his wife’s sudden disappearance, he’d vanished from their social circle too.
Marc, bleary-eyed, glanced over and recognized his old friend, Travis Acosta.
Throwing an arm around Travis’s shoulders, he chuckled, “Travis, look at that—what are the odds? Sit down, drink with me!”
Travis slid onto the stool beside him, brows knitting in concern. “Talk to me, man. What’s going on?”
Marc shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “What else could it be? Stella, as always.”
“Wait—wasn’t she… I thought she died. Marc, you’re still hung up on her?” Travis asked, incredulous.
Marc slammed his glass down, his voice rough. “She’s not dead. She’s just out there, pretending to be someone else. Why? Wasn’t I good to her? She’s my wife—there’s no substitute. What more does she want from me? I gave her everything. No one else could give her the life I did. If she left me, who’s going to take care of her? Without me, what does she even have? That thing with Haley, it’s nothing—just a meaningless fling.”
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