Mr billionaire's regret chasing his irresistible wife by Gabby Emmanuel

Beneath the surface; the story of his life.

(Arielle's POV)

Dwayne gestured to the bench, and we both sat down, our shoulders brushing as we settled into the space between us. A heavy silence hung in the air, neither of us speaking. I didn't want to pressure him, but being near him made me uneasy, especially when I knew he was hiding something from me. "It's... complicated," he said after a moment, breaking the silence.

"That's one thing about you that I'm trying to understand," I replied. "You're complicated, Dwayne. And I want to know why. Don't try to fool me this time. Nana's words..."-I shook my head "Nana Jean's always been good to me, but that doesn't mean she's completely open, especially when her own interests are involved."

I paused, gathering my thoughts. "I just want to hear it all from you, yourself. If you still regard me as your friend, Dwayne."

He met my gaze, and for a brief moment, we just stared at each other. He didn't speak, but his expression softened into that same helpless, tolerant smile, as if to say there was nothing more he could do. He shook his head slightly and then reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a small, vintage-looking wallet. He opened it carefully and took out a photo, holding it out to me.

I took the photo from him. It was old, slightly yellowed, with a crack running down the middle as though it had been torn in two and then glued back together.

I glanced up at Dwayne, but his face was unreadable now. The smile was gone.

He whispered, "Celeste Vandelle. A Hollywood singer in the 1990s. She was incredibly talented. When she debuted, everyone thought she was going to be an international superstar. She's my mother."

I stared at the woman in the photo. She was singing, mid-performance, completely absorbed in the moment. There was an ethereal quality to her a stunning, almost androgynous beauty. But it was those emerald eyes that stood out most. They were the same as Dwayne's. It was like looking into the same pair of eyes, only they were younger, filled with a different kind of light.

"She looks like a siren goddess," I murmured.

"But within a year," Dwayne continued, his voice suddenly turning cold, slicing through the still air, "she disappeared. No one cared anymore. Because she died. At such a young age."

I was stunned.

spoke again, his words coming faster now, almost a blur. "She died. For a man." His fist clenched, the knuckles turning

and cloak. The moment I saw him, I knew who he was. I didn't need Dwayne to

Or, more precisely...

said, his voice as cold as

(DWAYNE'S POV)

say

Arielle deserved to know, though. She deserved that much. So I inhaled, trying to steady myself, and began. "Grant met my mom when she was on the rise. She was everywhere. Any young man at the time would've wanted

gathering my thoughts. "There's a lot surrounding my birth, but... Jean-your nana-was against their relationship. It was a scandal. A forbidden affair. Didn't stop Grant, though. If

from the floor where it had been fixed since the start of the conversation. Arielle's expression shifted, her face paling

her in, under his protection, against Jean's wishes. My mother was devastated, torn between everything. She... she wanted to die, Arielle. Suicide was a constant thought for

there. A byproduct of their mess. He wasn't really ever there for me. He was too busy worrying about her... and her fragile state. I just felt like... I wasn't enough. Not enough to make her stay. Not enough to make

but I

the priority anymore. He gave in to the Smiths-his family-and married

I wasn't supposed to cry. In my world, tears were a weakness, and I'd long buried that part of me. But I wiped it away quickly and

my face gently, forcing me to meet her eyes. Her expression was soft, filled with pain. "I'm sorry, Dwayne. I'm so sorry. You

I smiled, and continued.

him for my mother's death every single day after that. I was just a boy, but I knew hate. It became a part of me. I grew up with it, let it mold me. I had nothing worth living for. My mom was dead, and my father, well, he had a new family he was more interested in taking care of. I wasn't allowed anywhere near

wanted to be caught, to go to jail, anything to escape that house. It was a prison. I'd see my mother every night in my

fighting the lump in my

have even that little escape. I found out fast that he was a man of influence. Grant Whitmore Smith, feared by many. A