The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 104: Make me laugh

The restaurant was warm and golden, laughter humming like background music from every table except theirs.

Rafael noticed it instantly. The stillness. The way Stefan stirred his drink but didn’t sip it. The way Mara stared at her phone too long, thumb hovering over the screen like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to connect with the world or disappear from it.

Even Rafael’s best jokes charming, and perfectly timed landed with the weight of a dropped glass. Mara smiled at him, but it was hollow, like someone lighting a match in a thunderstorm.

"I’ll be back," she murmured, stepping away from the table. Her fingers fumbled for her phone, and she pressed the call.

"Vera?" she said, voice soft, almost too soft for the noise around her.

"Hey," came the reply, scratchy and distant.

Mara frowned. That voice didn’t belong to Vera she knew the fierce one, full of spice and wildfire. This voice was thin, unraveling. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine," Vera replied too fast. "Just resting. The doctor says I need time. Maybe losing the baby was... God’s will."

And then she ended the call. Just like that.

But the words hung in Mara’s ear like frostbite.

Across town, Vera was anything but resting.

The gym reeked of sweat and old anger. Her body screamed with every movement, muscles unused to the strain. But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Pain was better than numbness.

Her fists struck the pad again. And again. She wanted to bleed. She wanted to bruise. She wanted to feel.

Because her heart hurt in ways the body couldn’t echo.

She turned, breathless, wiping her brow—

And there he was.

Victor.

Time didn’t freeze, but her body did. Her breath caught like it had been yanked from her lungs. That same ugly, oily fear started crawling up her spine.

He smiled. That same I-own-the-room smile. Like he didn’t remember what he did. Or worse—like he did and didn’t care.

But this time Vera didn’t look away.

This time, she burned his image into her mind. Every detail. Every smirk. Every arrogant flick of his wrist.

She would not break again. Not for him.

He had stolen something from her.

And next time, she swore with every aching bone in her body, she would be the one to take.

Back at the restaurant...

Rafael was still trying. God bless his golden heart. Joking about billion-dollar mistakes and lunch dates with pretty women.

"I might’ve lost a few dollars, but I’m still capable of buying a beautiful woman lunch," he said with a wink, leaning back like his confidence could cast a spell strong enough to banish the gloom.

Mara cracked a smile this time. Real enough to reach her eyes.

But something still itched at the edge of her awareness. A chill. A prickling at the base of her neck like someone had whispered her name in a language only her nerves understood.

"I’ll be right back," she said, excusing herself and slipping into the hallway toward the washroom.

The corridor was dim, almost too quiet. Her heels tapped against the tile like whispers. She paused. Looked behind her.

No one.

But the feeling stayed.

Someone’s watching.

She shook it off and continued on, but her fingers curled tight around her phone in her pocket, ready.

Back at the table, Stefan’s eyes followed her until she disappeared from view.

"Is she okay?" Rafael asked, casual on the surface but his eyes sharpened.

"She said she is," Stefan replied, voice low. "But she nods the same way I used to when things weren’t."

Mara never made it to the restroom.

She paused in the hallway, blinking at the small maintenance sign taped crookedly across the door. Before she could turn around, a staff member—face masked, uniform crisp—appeared from the shadows.

"Ma’am," he said smoothly, "this restroom is temporarily out of order. But there’s another one we’ve prepared just for guests like you—more private."

Mara, polite and unsuspecting, nodded.

She didn’t see the shadow behind her.

Didn’t feel the needle slip into her arm until her knees buckled.

The last thing she heard before the world went dark was the soft click of the cleaning cart’s lid closing above her.

Inside the restaurant...

Stefan froze mid-sip. Something shifted in his chest. A gut feeling, sharp and cold. Mara had been gone too long.

His eyes darted toward the hallway.

"Stay alert," he murmured to the bodyguards at the table beside them. "She’s been gone too long. Something’s not right."

Without waiting for an answer, Stefan stood and walked toward the restroom. The hallway was empty eerily so. Then he saw the sign. Out of Order.

No one had mentioned that earlier. His frown deepened.

Then his foot caught on something—small, glinting.

He looked down.

Mara’s earring.

His blood went ice cold.

"She’s gone," he muttered, dialing instantly. "Steve. Steve, he has her. Uncle Philip has Stef. I need you now. Send backup send everyone." He rattled off the restaurant’s location with barely contained fury.

Rafael, hearing the sharp edge in Stefan’s voice, stood fast. "What happened?"

"She’s been taken."

Meanwhile, across town...

Steve stood at the study with Stanford, Stanley, and Velarie when the call came through.

"He has her."

Stefan’s voice was a gunshot through the receiver.

Velarie’s fingers flew across the tablet, eyes narrowing. "I’ve got a signal. Last trace of her phone industrial zone, Dock 7." She turned to Steve. "We have a location."

"Go," Steve barked. "Now."

They sprinted to the car, sirens already wailing in the distance.

Back in the restaurant, chaos bloomed.

The bodyguards spread out. Rafael and Stefan stormed the kitchen.

"Crates!" Stefan said suddenly. "The ones by the loading dock—we saw them when we came in!"

They bolted through the back, past startled staff and swinging doors, to the alley behind the restaurant.

The crates were there. Wheels are still warm from movement.

Too late.

The truck was gone.

Sirens shrieked in the distance as the police arrived, flooding the building. Officers swarmed the restaurant, taking statements, combing security footage, and checking every inch of the alleyway.

Stefan’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles bled.

He felt it. Deep down. Philip was back and this time, he was playing for keeps.

News broke like wildfire.

Every screen lit up.

BREAKING: Heiress Stefania Shepherd Kidnapped Outside High-End Restaurant. Suspected Abduction Tied to International Fugitive Philip Shepherd.

Ethan was in his office when the alert popped up. He froze mid-sentence, staring at the headline. "No... no, no, no."

His phone slipped from his hand as he bolted upright.

Vera had just stepped into her apartment, muscles aching, eyes tired—when the notification buzzed.

Her blood ran cold.

She turned on the TV and there it was Mara’s face. The footage. The flashing lights. The headline screamed back at her.

And suddenly, every drop of exhaustion disappeared.

She didn’t even grab a coat. She was already running, out the door, down the stairs, heart thudding like a war drum.

Because if Philip was back... That meant it wasn’t over. Not for any of them and it was time to face Victor her rapiest again.

—

Darkness.

Not just around her—but on her. In her lungs, in her throat. Like the very air had been scraped out of the world and replaced with silence.

Where—

She tried to move, but her arms wouldn’t listen. Cramped. Bent at an awkward angle. The space around her was too small, too tight.

Plastic walls. Rubber wheels. The smell of bleach and industrial soap.

A cleaning cart.

She was in a damn cleaning cart.

Panic cracked through her like lightning. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a wild, caged thing. Her mouth moved, but the sound didn’t come right away—dry, muffled.

Her lips were taped.

A whimper escaped anyway. Not of fear.

Of rage.

She shifted again and squirmed shoulder to knee to elbow. A sickening realization settled in her stomach.

She’d been taken.

Again.

Her mind raced. She remembered the hallway. The staff uniform. The gloved hands. The sting in her arm. Then nothing.

No. No. Not like this. Not her. Not now.

Her breathing picked up. She pushed, hard. The lid creaked an inch before slamming shut again.

A laugh. Outside the crate.

That voice.

She’d know that voice anywhere.

"Still a fighter, I see," said a smooth, cold tone. "Just like your mother."

Mara froze.

Her blood went still like it stopped flowing altogether.

Uncle Philip.

It wasn’t just a memory anymore. Not a headline. Not a warning whispered in hushed tones.

He was real. Right here. Breathing her air. Watching her like a hunter watches a lioness in a cage.

"You’re awake. Good," he said, tapping the lid. "We’ve got so much catching up to do, darling."

She didn’t cry.

She wouldn’t.

Even as the crate rolled through the cold underground corridor, even as the wheels bumped and clattered and her body ached in more places than she could name, she kept her eyes open.

Cataloging the turns.

Counting the steps.

Learning the sound of his voice again not because she feared it.

But because she would remember it.

For when it was her turn.

When he was the one trapped. And she was the one watching.

And oh, he’d learn that lions don’t forget their cages.