The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 130: Her Diary, His Letter

Steve had meant to just check in on Mara, but she had left the gallery when he returned to pick her up.

The house was unusually quiet for a place that held so much tension these days. He had walked in without knocking—he never did knock when it came to Mara, his baby sister. The one they were all trying to protect, even if none of them really knew how to do it right anymore.

The door to her room was slightly ajar. The soft glow of the lamplight spilled across the floor like a whisper. He stepped in carefully, the familiar scent of lavender and the faintest trace of baby powder clinging to the air. She was already asleep.

Or maybe passed out from exhaustion.

She looked smaller somehow. Curled up like that, wrapped around her belly as if she were trying to guard it from the world. He swallowed hard. It still felt unreal—she was twenty. Just twenty. And carrying twins.

He stepped closer and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders like he used to when she was ten and having nightmares. There was something so heartbreakingly fragile about her now, even though she pretended to be strong. He could see through it. Always had.

He was about to turn off the lamp when his eyes caught something on the nightstand.

A letter on a dairy.

It wasn’t sealed. Just a single sheet of paper folded twice. Her name wasn’t on it, but the way it was placed—it felt deliberate. Like she wanted someone to find it. Or maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she was torn. Like always.

He hesitated.

He shouldn’t.

But his hand moved before his conscience caught up. Steve wasn’t a man easily ruled by curiosity, but when it came to Mara, he was always ruled by something. Worry. Fear. Love. All of it.

He picked it up slowly and unfolded it, like it might break, the first two lines making him know who the letter was from, then he picked up the diary.

The handwriting was hers, he recognized the slant, the small hearts above the i’s, though they were shakier now. Her hand couldn’t quite keep up with her emotions.

He read.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe writing this down will help me understand, or maybe it’s just making it worse. I keep thinking that if I let it out, I’ll breathe easier. But all I feel is guilt. And longing. And anger.

I loved Ethan. Maybe I still do. I don’t know what to call this ache in my chest. I know I was wrong to let her stay. I know I should’ve seen it coming. But I didn’t betray him. I swear I didn’t. And yet, I feel like the one wearing the blame like it’s stitched into my skin.

I want him. But I also want peace. And I’m terrified those two things can’t exist together.

The babies—they didn’t ask for this. They deserve more than a broken version of their parents trying to pretend like everything is okay. But they also deserve to know their father. And Ethan... he rubbed my belly today, and I wanted to scream and cry all at once. Because I miss him. Because I don’t trust him. Because I still love him.

And maybe that makes me weak. Or stupid. Or selfish.

I can already hear what everyone will say. Especially my brothers, they’ll be disappointed. They always look at me like I’m supposed to know better. Like I was supposed to be the exception.

But I’m not. I’m just a girl who fell in love and now doesn’t know how to survive the pieces.

If I choose him, I lose myself. If I don’t... I still might.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

–

Steve stood frozen, the diary trembling between his fingers. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

He looked at her—really looked. Not as a burden, not as a child who needed saving, but as a young woman trying her damn best to hold together a life she hadn’t planned for. A woman grieving, loving, and confused.

And all he could think was:

God, we failed her.

Not by being absent. But by being so present, so loud, so controlling, she didn’t feel safe enough to speak.

He closed the close the diary quietly, placing it exactly where it had been with the letter. His hand lingered on the blanket he had tucked around her just moments before.

"Stef," he whispered, not loud enough to wake her. "You don’t have to do this alone."

And maybe just maybe it was time he stopped trying to lead her life for her... and started learning how to stand beside her instead.

—

Steve sat in the den, elbows on his knees, the fireplace casting long shadows against the bookshelves. It was late, the kind of late that made the house feel heavier. Quiet, but not peaceful.

Stanley walked in first, the suit still crisp even though it was past midnight. Always the polished one. He loosened his tie and raised an eyebrow. "You called a meeting like it’s a damn boardroom. What’s going on, is it Philp?"

"Where’s Stanford?" Steve asked instead.

"Kitchen. Ranting about someone eating the last of the mango ice cream."

"That was me," Stefan said, entering behind him, looking unapologetic. "I needed sugar before walking into whatever this is."

Steve didn’t speak until all three were seated. Then, in a voice lower than usual, like he was trying not to startle the air, he said, "I read something tonight."

Stanley was the first to stiffen. "What a confession or something?"

Steve nodded. "Stef’s diary was on her nightstand. Like she wanted someone to find it, but couldn’t bring herself to hand it over, or maybe I invaded her privacy."

"What did it say?" Stanford asked. His usual fire was toned down, but still burning just beneath the surface.

Steve looked at them all, then sighed. "It wasn’t meant for us. Not really. But I’m glad I saw it. Because... we’ve all been so focused on controlling the damage, we forgot she’s the one standing in the middle of it."

Stanford narrowed his eyes. "She’s still young. Pregnant. Confused. She needs guidance."

"She needs space," Steve countered, almost gently. "She’s not asking us to fix it. She’s asking to be heard."

Stanley leaned forward, arms folded tightly. "What, you’re saying we just let Ethan waltz back in? Act like he didn’t hurt her?"

"No," Steve said. "I’m saying we stop trying to decide for her. She knows what he did. She knows what it cost her. But she also knows what she felt. And still feels."

Stanley shook his head slowly. "She’s always been soft with the people she loves. She forgives easily. That’s the part that scares me. We all know the man Ethan is."

"Me too, but unfortunately, our sister loves him as much as I want to kill that bastard. Stef is still hurting over him," Steve admitted. "But she’s not blind. She’s scared, yeah. But not weak. She’s carrying two lives, Stanley. And all we’re doing is reminding her of what she lost, what she did wrong, who she shouldn’t trust. No one’s asking what she wants."

There was a long silence.

The kind that pressed against the chest, the kind that usually came after funerals or confessions.

Stanford leaned back, arms crossed now. "So what are you saying? We let her decide whether Ethan’s in their lives or not. Just... watch from the sidelines?"

"I’m saying we trust her and respect her choice," Steve said, voice calm but firm. "Even if it hurts to watch as long as she is happy."

Stefan scoffed, then dropped his head into his hands. "I don’t want to see her struggling like this over a man that..."

"I feel the same, too. I guess that’s how love is until she is ready to give up on him, we can’t do anything," Stanley said quietly, for once not sounding like the CEO. "But if we keep smothering her, she’s going to push us all away. One by one. To think she thought we would be disappointed in her,"

Steve nodded slowly. "I read that letter and... she’s not asking for approval. She’s begging for peace. And it’s on us not to become the reason she doesn’t find it."

The fire crackled beside them.

No one moved.

"Alright," Stanford finally said. "Then we stop pushing. We support her. But if Ethan messes up again—"

"Then we bury him," Stefan finished, dark eyes flaring just enough.

Steve gave a small smile. "We’ll cross that bridge. But for now... we step back." Stanley stood, rolling his shoulders. "One step back. But not out."

"Never out," Steve echoed.

—

Mara lies on her bed, tossing her head back and forth as beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Her fingers clutch the sheets tightly, knuckles whitening with the tension of her struggle.

Gradually, as if a calming presence has washed over her, she relaxes her grip, allowing her hand to rest gently against the cool fabric. Her eyes, once tense with anxiety, begin to soften and lose their frantic gleam, as if an angel has just stepped into her room, bringing with it a serene sense of peace that envelops her.