The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 148: Can I kiss you

Club Zenith wasn’t just a nightclub. It was a temple.

A place where the powerful came to sin with style. Where mirrors lined the ceiling, and every surface reflected something forbidden. The music didn’t thump, it seduced, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the skin. Girls danced on elevated platforms like gods had carved them from smoke. Men in tailored suits whispered lies into champagne flutes.

And above them all, in a glass-walled VIP tower overlooking the dancefloor like a throne, sat Philip Shepherd.

Mara saw him the moment she stepped through the gilded entrance.

Her dress was black velvet, clinging like it had been sewn straight onto her body. The slit kissed the top of her thigh, and her heels were sharp enough to pierce the skin. Her hair was swept up, her neck bare, exposing every inch of her spine like a challenge.

She was no longer hiding.

Rafael flanked her in a custom midnight-blue suit, his demeanor unreadable. Cool. Dangerous. The perfect shadow to her fire.

"Security’s light," he murmured in her ear as they passed the velvet rope. "Philip thinks he owns this city. He doesn’t expect the walls to fall."

"He should," Mara said, her lips barely moving. "Because we’re already inside."

The hostess, clearly under orders, escorted them straight to the second floor, just beneath Philip’s glass tower. VIP, but not that VIP. Perfect. Mara needed to be close, but not yet seen.

Not yet.

She sat with her legs crossed, pretending to sip champagne while her eyes swept the room. Below, bodies writhed. Laughed. Gambled. Her fingers traced the edge of her glass, not nervously, but calculatingly.

Rafael leaned in. "Our man’s in position."

Below, a man with a shaved head in a bartender’s uniform gave a slight nod.

"Time?" she asked.

"Midnight."

At exactly 12:00 a.m., Club Zenith would suffer its first bleeding wound.

Not a bomb. Not a gun. Something far quieter and more damaging.

Mara watched as a beautiful dancer in red was led up to the private tower. A moment later, another. And then another. Rafael handed her a phone.

"Live feed from the security room."

Mara watched on the screen as the three women began their performance for Philip and his inner circle, seven men, all familiar from the files. Cocaine. Girls. Laughter. Everything he was known for.

Then she smiled.

"Send the tape," she said.

Rafael hit a button.

In less than sixty seconds, the footage was sent anonymously to the local narcotics unit, the mayor’s office, and a rival cartel that had long accused Philip of violating their territory.

But the real move?

She had hacked into Club Zenith’s financial system three days ago, transferring deposits and hidden crypto wallets. All are now being rerouted to frozen offshore accounts flagged by Interpol.

She wasn’t just going to burn him.

She was going to bankrupt him first.

Across the room, one of Philip’s men checked his phone. He stood abruptly. Then another. Then another.

Mara watched it unfold like an opera.

Chaos doesn’t always start with screaming. Sometimes it begins with a phone vibrating in a man’s pocket and a bank account reduced to zero.

Philip was shouting now behind the glass, gesturing wildly. Two of his men ran out of the tower. Another pulled a gun and stormed toward the security booth.

Mara stood up slowly, slipping her arm through Rafael’s.

"Time to leave?"

"Time to disappear," he said.

They exited through a side corridor Rafael had memorized, winding past the kitchen, out through a service alley already lit with flashing red and blue lights in the distance.

As they slid into a black car waiting two blocks away, Mara looked back once through the tinted window. She saw Club Zenith’s lights flickering, music sputtering.

The first domino had fallen. And she was smiling.

The day after Club Zenith fell into chaos, the media buzzed with quiet whispers.

A raid was "rumored." Authorities were "tight-lipped." An anonymous leak had sent waves through political circles. Two city officials resigned overnight.

And Philip Shepherd?

He was silent.

Which, to Mara, meant one thing: he was scrambling.

Back in the penthouse, she stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, hair wet from the shower, dressed in an oversized shirt as she sipped black coffee and reviewed the next target.

"Club Zenith was just the appetizer," she said, tapping the folder on the table. "But this..." She slid the file open, revealing a photo of a sleek, futuristic casino tucked into Cartana’s waterfront.

"Camil Fortune," Rafael said. "His cash cow."

"Launders more money than all his clubs combined. He runs the chips through fake high-rollers and VIP events. We expose it, freeze it, burn it down. He’ll be nothing without it."

Rafael nodded. "You’re enjoying this."

Mara turned, meeting his eyes. "Not enjoying. Fulfilling a promise."

He stepped closer, the air tightening between them. "You’re not the only one with a promise to keep."

For a moment, she let the weight of it settle, this strange alliance of pain, fire, and something far more dangerous blooming between them.

But feelings could wait. Philip couldn’t.

Two Days Later — Camil Fortune

Dressed in a white silk jumpsuit and diamonds that screamed money, Mara walked through Camil Fortune like she owned it.

Because one day soon, she would.

Rafael posed as her silent partner, a jet-set investor from Kisbon. They entered as invited VIPs, thanks to fake profiles created weeks ago profiles so convincing even Philip’s people couldn’t tell they were ghosts.

Inside, the casino sparkled like a palace with glass chandeliers. Crystal drink towers. Roulette wheels spinning like prophecies.

Mara kept her pace smooth. Calm. Watching.

Security was heavy but sloppy. Philip had grown lazy, trusting his power. That made him predictable.

Rafael whispered, "Our guy is in the tech room."

"Give him five minutes," she murmured. "Then tell him to crash the vault servers."

At exactly 9:17 p.m., the lights flickered.

And then the numbers disappeared from every chip-tracking screen across the casino.

For two minutes and fourteen seconds, Camil Fortune had no eyes. No tracking. No internal monitoring.

And in those two minutes, Rafael and Mara’s man smuggled out five physical ledgers, a hard drive of surveillance footage, and a briefcase filled with two million in dirty cash, later deposited into an anonymous account under a fake name: A. Shepherd.

It was symbolic.

They didn’t just hit Philip’s pocket.

They hit his ego.

Back in the car, Mara unwrapped a chocolate bar, broke off a piece, and popped it into her mouth as she watched the panic spiral across a tablet screen.

Guards were arguing. A pit boss was on the phone. Alarms were flashing, and it was too late, too confused.

"That’s the thing about empires," Mara said, voice rich and low. "They fall fastest when they think they’re invincible."

Rafael leaned back, his smirk both smug and satisfied. "What’s next?"

Mara’s eyes gleamed with quiet fire. "We make him bleed. In public."

Before Rafael could respond with another one of his signature cheeky remarks, her phone buzzed. She glanced down at the screen and groaned Shepherd Group Call. She answered anyway, pressing the speaker.

"You haven’t called in days." Steve’s voice came through, staticky with concern and the classic elder-brother disapproval. "How are you, sister? We miss you."

Before Mara could answer, another voice jumped in.

"Please come home." Stefan, this time, softer, more heartfelt. "It’s... uneasy knowing you’re out there alone with Baby Audrey."

Mara rolled her eyes, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "Alright, alright, you guys. We’re doing fine. And yes, I have been managing the foundation from here, thank you very much."

"’We’?" Steve asked sharply. "Who’s we?"

"Rafael and I," she replied casually, stealing a glance at Rafael, who gave a smug little wave at the phone like he could be seen.

There was a short pause.

Then, from all four brothers at once:

"Ohhhhhh."

Mara sighed. "Don’t start."

"Are you two a thing now?" Stanford teased. "Because if he’s trying to make the brother-in-law list, he’s gonna need a serious background check."

Rafael, overhearing, leaned closer to the phone. "Tell them I’m charming, wealthy, and I make a nice hot chocolate tea."

"Guys, hang up. I’m in the middle of something."

"Wait—" Steve cut in, his tone shifting. "You’re not going after Philip alone, are you?"

Mara paused, her expression tightening just slightly, the steel returning to her spine. "I’m no longer afraid of what Philip can do to me," she said quietly, but with conviction. "And I’m not alone."

And before any of them could object or plead or threaten to fly out there themselves, she ended the call.

She stood, the sleek white fabric of her dress falling into place as she stepped out of the car. The warm lights of the penthouse building bathed her face in gold. Her heels clicked on the marble as she moved forward, each step dripping with quiet power and purpose.

She was in control. She was dangerous. She was not the same girl who had run.

There was fruit in the night, the sweetness of power regained, of fear shed like an old skin. Her brothers still worried, of course, they did. But how could she miss them terribly when her hands were busy with justice... and her nights were tangled with revenge and, well, a bit of Rafael.

Back in the penthouse, the city lights flickered against the tall windows, casting golden shadows across the marble floor. Mara curled her legs beneath her on the couch, cradling a cup of tea Rafael had made earlier. He stood by the window now, arms folded, eyes on the skyline like it was whispering secrets only he could hear.

She studied him for a long moment, then asked softly, "You’ve never loved anyone? Never had a girlfriend all these years?" freewebnøvel.coɱ

Rafael turned his head slightly, offering a quiet smile. "I did. Once."

That caught her off guard. She blinked. "Really? What happened? Where is she now?"

He chuckled, just once, and looked down as though the memory was a well-worn photograph folded into his pocket.

"Her name was Zeday," he said, "I was ten. She was fifteen."

Mara raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That’s not love, that’s a schoolboy crush."

"Oh, no." He nodded solemnly. "It was a grand affair. I told her she’d be the love of my life once I grew up."

Mara narrowed her eyes, half-smiling. "And?"

"She passed away 5 days after," he said quietly, and the humor faded from his voice. "So yeah... never really saw anyone I liked after that."

There was a long pause.

"That was over twenty years ago," Mara said, incredulous. "You’re telling me you’ve gone two decades without... what, no girlfriends, no flings, not even a drunken mistake?"

Rafael grinned again, his voice soft. "Nope."

"You’re either extremely disciplined or extremely boring."

"Or extremely in love with the idea of someone worth waiting for."

Mara’s eyes locked with his, searching for the punchline. But it didn’t come. No smirk. No sarcastic bow. Just the raw, naked honesty in his gaze.

Then, gently, he asked, "Can I kiss you?"