My Two Billionaire Husbands: A Plan for Revenge-Chapter 208: See For Myself

In the sleek, glass-walled boardroom of Cross Tech, the hum of the projector filled the air as Chiqui walked the team through a detailed proposal. Slide after slide flashed across the screen, her voice steady, professional.

But at the far end of the table, Greg sat frozen—his gaze fixed not on the presentation, but on the black screen of his phone.

He wasn’t hearing a word.

Ethan, ever the attentive one, asked a couple of clarifying questions, and Chiqui answered with practiced ease, not missing a beat. Everyone seemed satisfied. Everyone... except Greg.

He tapped his thumb against his phone screen. Again. And again. Hoping for a vibration. A ping. Anything.

Nothing.

When the meeting finally drew to a close, laptops shutting, chairs scraping softly against the polished floor. That’s when Harry, seated a few spots down, finally broke the silence.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his tone gentle but marked with concern.

Greg didn’t react at first. It was as if the words had to travel through a fog. He looked up, startled to find all eyes on him—Harry, Ethan, and Chiqui were all watching, their expressions tense.

"Huh?" he blinked.

"You weren’t listening," Ethan said, his voice firmer now. "Chiqui just gave a whole report and you didn’t hear a word of it."

Greg exhaled heavily, his hand dragging across his face as he leaned his elbow on the desk. "Cammy..." he muttered. "She’s not replying to me. Since yesterday."

He lifted his phone and held it like evidence, showing the string of unanswered messages. "She only texted once—said she arrived in Arlon safely. And that was it. Radio silence since then."

Ethan tried to soften the blow. "Maybe she’s just busy. Spending time with her dad. I mean, they haven’t seen each other in a while, right? Once she has a moment, I’m sure she’ll call."

Greg shook his head, his jaw tightening. "No. No, that’s not her. I know Cammy. Even when she’s drowning in work or exhausted, she always replies. Always. Even if it’s just a single emoji."

He looked at them all, his voice cracking slightly—the rarest sign of vulnerability from the ever-composed CEO.

"There’s something wrong. I feel it in my gut."

The room was heavy with unspoken worry now. Even Chiqui, usually stone-faced during meetings, looked troubled.

"Do you want me to call someone in Arlon?" Harry offered carefully. "Maybe we can—"

"No," Greg cut in sharply, standing up so suddenly his chair groaned. "I’ll go. I need to see for myself. I don’t care if it’s irrational, I’m not sitting here pretending this is fine."

He turned to leave, already dialing her number again as he strode toward the door.

It rang once.

Twice.

And then...

Voicemail.

Greg’s heart pounded like war drums in his chest.

"Cammy," he said after the beep, his voice low, intense, a touch frantic. "Please call me. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is—just tell me you’re okay. Please."

He hung up.

Then, without another word to anyone, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving his team behind in silence.

*********

In Arlon City...

Cammy sat on the edge of the sofa, her posture rigid, her fingers clutched around a throw pillow on her lap like it was the last thing anchoring her to the earth.

Her eyes were fixed on the city skyline, but she wasn’t watching it—she was drifting somewhere deep in the recesses of her own mind, where every breath felt like it was dragging shards of glass through her chest.

Ric moved quietly in the kitchen, his voice soft but steady as he guided Peter’s caregiver through the steps of the recipe.

"Add just a pinch of turmeric—not too much. It’s good for inflammation and—"

He trailed off for a moment, glancing over his shoulder.

Cammy hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Her silhouette was outlined by the golden light pouring through the tall windows, but she looked like a ghost—still, silent, and swallowed by an invisible storm.

Ric’s jaw clenched, concern simmering just below the surface. He didn’t want to push her—not yet. But watching her like this... broken and unmoving... it clawed at something deep inside him.

’Fuck! I shouldn’t have let Monica do this!’ he thought.

In the master’s bedroom, laughter floated down the hallway. Monica’s voice, light and cheerful, mingled with Dylan’s excited squeals as he pointed at the screen during a cartoon.

Cammy heard it.

And it felt like a blade twisting in her chest.

Her mother. Her child. Laughing together in the next room, as if the world hadn’t just crumbled beneath her feet.

Her hand drifted to her stomach again—a protective, unconscious gesture. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and raw from crying earlier, but her tears had stopped. She had no more left to give.

What was left now was something quieter. More dangerous.

Numbness.

Ric finished up the cooking instructions and stepped away, wiping his hands on a towel before walking slowly toward her. He knelt beside the sofa, his eyes searching her face.

"Cammy..." he said gently.

She blinked.

Just once.

Then her eyes finally shifted, looking down at him like she’d only now realized he was there. "I can’t breathe when I think of it," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "The moment I read it, I felt like something inside me just—died."

Ric reached for her hand. "I know. I know it hurts, Cammy. But you’re not alone."

She shook her head, tears pooling again but refusing to fall. "I don’t know how to face them. My father. Dylan. Even Greg... God, Ric... I loved him. I thought—" her voice broke, "I thought we had a future."

Ric pressed her hand gently. "You did what anyone would have done. You loved without knowing the truth. That’s not your fault."

"But now I know," she whispered. "And I can never unknow it."

Silence stretched thick between them.

"I feel like I’m grieving someone I haven’t even lost yet," she added, voice trembling. "Like something sacred between us just died the moment I read that paper. And I don’t know who I am without that love."

Ric didn’t speak. He just wrapped his arms around her and held her as tightly as she would allow. And for the first time in hours, Cammy let herself lean into him, just a little—like a flower wilting into someone else’s light.

But the ache remained.

And outside, the city kept moving—oblivious to the quiet devastation happening behind penthouse glass.

Cammy slowly pulled away from Ric’s comforting embrace, her arms dropping to her sides. She wiped her tears with the sleeve of her sweater, inhaling shakily, forcing her heart to harden—if only for a moment.

"I have to be strong," she whispered to herself. "I have to... for Dylan. For my father."

Ric stood beside her, silent, watching her gather the shattered pieces of herself like broken glass being swept up with bare hands.

Cammy rose to her feet and took one last deep breath before walking toward the kitchen.

"Let’s eat," she called out, her voice steady despite the tremble underneath. "Dinner’s ready."

From the hallway, Dylan’s head popped out, followed by Monica, who was pushing Peter’s wheelchair. The boys were giggling, still bubbling with energy from the movie. Monica’s face softened at the sight of her daughter looking so pale yet trying to wear a smile.

They gathered around the dining table, the lights above casting a warm glow over the plates of food Ric had prepared earlier. Despite the warm aroma, the laughter, the peace—it all felt surreal to Cammy, like she was watching the scene unfold from a distance.

Peter tried to chat animatedly as Ric helped him with his food, and Dylan, with childlike curiosity, tilted his head and looked at Cammy across the table.

"Mommy..." Dylan said softly, "Why are you sad?"

Cammy blinked, her spoon frozen in mid-air. Her lips parted, but before she could answer, Monica gently cut in. freewebnøvel.com

"She’s just tired, sweetheart," Monica said with a soft, reassuring smile. "She spent the day helping Uncle Ric at the hospital—feeding sick children and their parents. It was a lot, but she did a good thing."

Dylan accepted the explanation with a nod, still watching his mother carefully as he continued eating.

For a brief moment, things felt still. Safe.

Until the elevator dinged.

Everyone turned toward the sound and watched the caregiver press the open button. The penthouse doors opened.

And in stepped Greg.

He looked exhausted. His tie was undone, his coat half-buttoned. But his eyes scanned the room with sharp urgency until they landed on her.

"Cammy," he breathed, taking a step forward.

She froze.

Monica stood up immediately, stepping in front of him like a shield. "You need to leave," she said firmly.

"What?" Greg blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"She won’t see you anymore," Monica declared. "You being here—it’s only going to make things worse."

Greg’s brows furrowed. "I came all the way to Arlon because she wouldn’t answer my calls. I’ve been worried sick! I don’t care what you say—Cammy can speak for herself!"

Ric rose slowly from his seat, positioning himself between Greg and the table, his shoulders tight. "Now’s not the time, Greg."

Greg’s jaw clenched. "What the hell are you doing here, Ric? You think because I’m not around, you get to play hero?"

"I’m here because she needed someone," Ric snapped back, his calm starting to crack. "You don’t even know what she’s going through."

"I would if someone actually told me what the fuck is going on!"

"Enough!" Monica shouted.

But it was already too late.

Cammy’s hand dropped her spoon.

Her vision blurred.

The world tilted.

"Mommy?" Dylan’s small voice rang out.

And then—

Cammy collapsed.

The chair clattered loudly as she fell to the floor.

"Cammy!" Ric rushed forward, catching her just before her head hit the tile.

Greg lunged in at the same time, panic overtaking every ounce of anger in his body.

"Cammy!" he gasped. "Cammy, talk to me!"

But she didn’t move.

Her face was pale. Her lips, trembling. Eyes fluttering shut.

Ric looked up at Monica.

"Call an ambulance—now!"