The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 46: Last minute victory

The office was heavy with exhaustion. Papers lay scattered across desks, half-empty coffee cups sat abandoned, and the soft hum of computers filled the silence. Some had their heads resting on their arms, others sat upright, eyes barely open, caught in the battle between sleep and duty. It had been a long night and a long day, and yet, the storm was far from over.

The door creaked open, and Ethan stepped inside. His presence pulled at the room like a thread unraveling the last remnants of sleep. Heads lifted. Bodies stirred. Eyes, once glazed over, found focus.

"I know we’re all tired," he began, his voice calm but edged with urgency. "But I have bad news."

A hush fell over the room. The air, thick with fatigue, now bristled with anticipation. Ethan glanced at his wristwatch, his jaw tightening as he met their expectant gazes.

"The prosecution is moving the trial forward," he said. A pause, just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in. "We have twenty minutes."

Silence. Then, a sharp intake of breath from Lucy. She straightened, pushing strands of loose hair behind her ear, her exhaustion barely masked by the steady professionalism in her voice.

"We’re not ready, Ethan. We could ask for more time," she said.

Ethan held her gaze for a moment before shaking his head. "We could," he admitted. "But that would only give them more time to build a stronger case against us."

He let out a breath, rubbing his forehead before looking around at the team—his team. People who had given everything, running on fumes yet still willing to push forward.

"If we fly blind," he murmured, "they fly blind too."

There was a beat of silence. Then, one by one, they straightened, reaching for notes, typing furiously, flipping through documents. The fight wasn’t over yet. The tension in the room was thick, the weight of the trial pressing down on everyone. Mr. Copeland leaned forward, his voice steady but laced with worry.

"I guess you have a plan?" He couldn’t afford to leave his fate to chance. Not now. Never.

Ethan met his gaze, unwavering. "Yes. We need to focus on the jury." He turned to his team. "What do we know about them? Who among them is most likely to see reason?"

His associates moved quickly, flipping through files, scanning notes, cross-referencing past cases. Within moments, one of them spoke up.

"Seven," they said. "We have seven out of twelve who might rule in our favor."

Ethan exhaled, nodding. "I can work with that."

The atmosphere remained heavy as he turned on his heel, heading to his office to change and prepare for the courtroom. Every second mattered now.

"You got this, boss," Steph said, stepping into his path and offering him a steaming cup of coffee.

Ethan took it with a tired nod. "Thanks, Steph."

He looked exhausted—because he was. Late nights, impossible odds, high-stakes cases... he was used to all of it. But this time, something was different. His mind wasn’t as sharp, his focus kept slipping. He knew why.

Mara.

He hadn’t let himself think about it, about her. Not fully. But even as he tried to shut it out, her absence gnawed at him. She had always been his anchor, the one person who saw through every wall he built. And now, she was gone.

Steph seemed to read his thoughts. "She’s fine," he said softly. "At least, we can only hope. Her pain runs deep, and it won’t fade overnight. But I do hope the Shepherds aren’t using her against you. She loves you, Ethan. You’ll get through this."

Ethan said nothing, just gave Steph’s shoulder a firm pat before reaching for his briefcase. Some things were better left unspoken.

As he was about to leave, his phone buzzed in his hand. Without glancing at the screen, he answered.

"Son," came his mother’s voice. "Your grandfather wants to see Mara. He found out you two were married, and he insists you bring her to greet him."

Ethan’s grip tightened on the phone. His jaw clenched.

"Mara left the mansion," he said flatly. "I can’t talk about this right now. I have an important case."

"Ethan—"

"I’ll call you after court."

Just as he was about to hang up, a louder, rougher voice burst through the speaker.

"You silly brat!" his grandfather bellowed. "If you don’t bring my granddaughter-in-law to the mansion now, you can forget about the Riverlands project."

Ethan sighed, rubbing his temple. "I’ll bring her, Grandpa. But yelling isn’t good for your heart."

And with that, he ended the call.

"Ethan!" Mr. Anderson Sr. shouted into the silence, before scoffing in frustration. "That brat hung up on me."

Steph, who had been listening, raised an eyebrow as they stepped out of the office. "You just promised to take Mara to your grandfather."

"Not now, Steph," Ethan muttered. "Let’s focus on the case."

He leaned in, whispering something to Steph. A slow, knowing smirk formed on his friend’s lips.

"That’s the trump card?" Steph asked.

Ethan nodded. "If you can pull it off."

Steph straightened, determination flickering in his eyes. "Alright, boss."

Ethan placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I’m counting on you."

Steph gave a single nod before turning and walking in the opposite direction.

Lucy watched as Steph walked off in the opposite direction, her curiosity piqued. She turned to Ethan, brows raised.

"Where’s Steph going?" she asked.

Ethan, already settling into the car, barely glanced up. "To handle something." His voice was casual, almost too casual.

Lucy hesitated, debating whether to press further. But one look at Ethan’s face told her everything—he wasn’t in the mood for questions. With a small sigh, she let it go.

The drive to the courthouse was tense but quiet. Ethan stared out the window, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee. Lucy stole a glance at him, wondering if the weight of the case was finally getting to him.

When they arrived, the scene outside was pure chaos. Reporters swarmed the entrance, their microphones and cameras aimed like weapons. The air buzzed with overlapping questions, their voices blending into a relentless storm.

"Did your client kill his wife?"

"What do you have to say about the murder weapon?"

"Are you pleading not guilty?"

The questions came rapid-fire, bouncing off Ethan and Mr. Copeland like bullets against armor. But Ethan didn’t flinch. He kept walking, eyes forward, jaw tight. Not a single word.

Mr. Copeland, on the other hand, looked less composed. His shoulders were stiff, his face pale under the harsh flashes of cameras. As they stepped inside the courthouse, he turned to Ethan, his voice low but sharp.

"Why didn’t you answer their questions?" he demanded. "I told you—I don’t just want to win in court. I need to win in the public eye too. This whole thing is destroying my business. I can’t have people thinking I’m a murderer!"

Ethan exhaled slowly, keeping his tone calm. "I promised you a ’not guilty,’ and that’s what I’m going to deliver." His voice softened, but there was a quiet certainty beneath it. "The public? We’ll handle that later."

Mr. Copeland scoffed, shaking his head. "That so?" His voice wavered slightly. "You don’t sound as convinced as you did before. Can you still deliver on that promise?"

Ethan turned to him, finally meeting his eyes. "Yes," he said, firm but measured. Then his expression hardened. "But you hurt our defense by hiding important information from us. You need to sit there and do exactly what I say."

Mr. Copeland swallowed, his nerves painfully obvious. Ethan leaned in just a little, lowering his voice.

"Look like a man who just lost his wife," he murmured. "Because that’s exactly who you’re supposed to be."

With that, Ethan sat down, smoothing his tie as if the conversation had never happened. Mr. Copeland hesitated, then slowly did the same.

The trial was about to begin.

The courtroom was heavy with tension, the air thick with anticipation. The presiding judge had barely taken his seat before the prosecution launched into their argument, hammering point after point with ruthless precision.

Ethan sat still, listening, watching. But his mind was elsewhere. His eyes flickered toward the door, again and again, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. He was stalling. Buying time. Steph was supposed to be back by now.

But he wasn’t.

And they were losing.

Across the room, the prosecutor stood tall, confidence dripping from every word. The jury was engaged, nodding along. The judge, unimpressed with Ethan’s delays, finally spoke up.

"Mr. Anderson, are you planning to present your defense, or should we proceed without it?"

Ethan opened his mouth, scrambling for another way to stretch the clock, but the judge’s glare warned him not to try.

"I’m sorry, Your Honor," he said, forcing a calm tone. But inside, his mind was racing. He had exhausted every trick, every delay. If Steph didn’t show up soon, their only option would be an appeal.

And then—

The door burst open.

Steph came running in, slightly out of breath, clutching a thick file in his hands. Relief crashed over Ethan like a wave.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, and turned back to the court with renewed energy.

"Your Honor, I have new evidence."

The courtroom stirred. The prosecutor tensed.

Ethan moved quickly, his voice steady, his words sharp. He laid out the evidence piece by piece, revealing a crucial detail: his client wasn’t even at the crime scene. The timestamps, the surveillance footage, the alibi—everything lined up perfectly.

The prosecutor barely had time to react. The evidence was clear, undeniable. The cross-examination was weak, rushed, almost desperate.

Two hours later, it was over.

The jury delivered the verdict: Not guilty.

A rush of emotions filled the room. Mr. Copeland nearly collapsed with relief. Ethan allowed himself a small smile as the courtroom buzzed with excitement.

But just as he turned to shake hands with his client, his gaze landed on a familiar face in the audience.

Steve Shepherd.

Ethan’s breath caught. His pulse quickened. The victory, the relief—it all faded in an instant, replaced by something darker.

Rage.

His hands curled into fists as he stepped forward, his mind replaying every reason why that man shouldn’t be standing here, watching.

He took a step toward him, then another.

And then—

A hand grabbed his arm.

Ethan turned, eyes flashing.

When he looked back—

Steve Shepherd was gone.