The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 75: In my way

The dimly lit study smelled of aged whiskey and cigars, the air thick with tension. Philip stood near the grand mahogany desk, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, his expression cold and unreadable. Across from him, his most trusted man, Victor, leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, waiting for instructions.

"We need to get Stefania out of the way," Philip said, his voice low but firm. "She’s becoming a problem."

Victor tilted his head slightly, studying his boss. "You think she has the evidence?"

Philip exhaled sharply, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I don’t know. If she did, she would have told her brothers by now. And I would have known about it, she also doesn’t remember anything from the past," His jaw tightened. "But I can’t take that risk. If she starts digging into things—if she becomes like her mother—"

His voice trailed off, but the weight of the unspoken words hung between them.

Victor’s expression darkened. "You regret not taking care of her that night?"

Philip’s grip on the glass tightened. "I should have gotten rid of her the same night I got rid of my brother and his wife," he admitted, his voice laced with something close to regret—not for their deaths, but for the loose end he had allowed to remain. "She was just a child. Harmless. Or so I thought."

Victor nodded, understanding the implication. "If she starts asking questions, she won’t stop until she finds answers."

Philip set his glass down with a quiet clink, his eyes narrowing. "Which is why we’re not waiting. While she still trusts me and while she still doesn’t remember anything, we make our move."

A sudden noise shattered the silence—a sharp thud, something falling just outside the door.

Both men stiffened.

Philip’s eyes snapped toward the source of the sound, his body tense. Victor was already moving, his hand hovering near the concealed weapon at his waist.

Was someone listening?

Philip exchanged a look with Victor before striding toward the door, his pulse steady but alert. If someone had heard what they were planning... they wouldn’t be leaving this room alive.

The cold night air bit at Mr. Shepherd Sr.’s skin as he stood frozen outside the study, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time—just a few steps too slow.

Victor was on him in seconds.

A firm grip latched onto his arm, dragging him back into the shadows. He struggled, but he was no longer the man he used to be. Age had weakened his once-powerful body, and against Victor’s strength, he was no match.

His mind reeled as the weight of what he had overheard crashed down on him. His own son. Philip. A murderer. A man who had killed his own brother and sister-in-law, and now, he was planning to kill his niece as well.

Had he been blind all these years?

Power had consumed Philip, just as he had feared it would. It was a force stronger than blood, stronger than morality. And when a man possesses such immense power that even the president or the highest authority dares not question him, he forgets the difference between right and wrong.

Mr. Shepherd had once tried to stop the greed festering in his son’s heart. He had stripped him of power, believing it was the only way to save him from himself. But Philip had proven to be his father’s greatest failure. Instead of reforming, he had become a shadow of his younger self—a man who had founded the very organization that now thrived on crime and corruption, covering up sins in the name of order.

And now, he was reaping the consequences.

Inside the dimly lit study, Mr. Shepherd found himself bound to a chair, thick ropes cutting into his wrists. Philip stood before him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those same eyes he had known since childhood—held nothing but cold calculation.

"You should’ve stayed out of this, Father," Philip murmured, his voice disturbingly calm. "You always warned me about power, but you never understood. It’s not about greed. It’s about control. Order."

Mr. Shepherd’s jaw clenched. He wanted to speak, to tell his son he was wrong, that he had lost himself—but before he could utter a word, voices echoed from the hallway.

Stanley and Stanford.

They were calling for their uncle.

Panic surged through Mr. Shepherd, and he instinctively tried to make a sound—to warn them. But Philip was faster. In an instant, he clamped a firm hand over his father’s mouth, silencing him.

Victor exchanged a glance with Philip before stepping out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

A second later, he was standing before Stanley and Stanford, his expression smooth, unreadable. "Your uncle just stepped out," he said casually. "You might want to come back later."

Stanley and Stanford exchanged glances, glancing past Victor toward the study. Something felt... off. Their uncle’s car was still parked outside. Why would he leave on foot?

But neither of them voiced their thoughts.

Stanley gave a slow nod. "Alright. We’ll come back."

As they turned to leave, Stanley felt something under his shoe. A small, cold object.

Frowning, he stepped back and glanced down.

His breath caught.

A watch.

His grandfather’s watch.

Stanley bent down, picking it up quickly, his movements swift enough that Victor didn’t notice. He recognized it instantly. His grandfather never went anywhere without it. So why was it on the floor?

His grip tightened around the watch as unease settled deep in his gut.

Something was very, very wrong.

Outside, Stanley clutched the watch tightly in his palm, his mind racing.

"There’s no way Grandpa left this behind," he muttered, his voice low. "And Victor was acting strange. Did you see the way he answered us? He was too quick to brush us off."

Stanford frowned, his jaw tightening. "You think Grandpa’s still inside?"

Stanley exhaled, glancing back at the house. The windows were dark, the heavy silence unnerving. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

"We need to find out," he said. "But we can’t just walk back in. We have to be smart about this."

Stanford nodded, already understanding the plan. They had to make it look like they were leaving.

Without hesitation, they got into the car, starting the engine. They pulled out of the compound, their taillights disappearing into the night. But as soon as they were far enough, Stanley pulled the car into a secluded spot down the road, cutting the engine.

They sat in silence for a moment before exchanging a look. No words were needed.

Carefully, they got out, moving swiftly and silently through the darkness.

Philip had taught them well. Ironically, it was their uncle who had once trained them in the art of moving undetected—how to avoid security cameras, how to navigate unseen. And tonight, they would use those lessons against him.

They reached the house undetected, keeping close to the walls as they moved toward the back entrance. As they approached, faint voices drifted through the night air.

Then—

A sharp crack echoed through the garden.

A gunshot.

Stanford’s stomach twisted violently as he peered through the foliage. His breath caught in his throat.

Their grandfather was on his knees, his chest heaving, his white shirt stained with spreading crimson.

Philip stood over him, gun still raised, his expression devoid of remorse.

Stanford lurched forward, instinct kicking in, but Stanley grabbed him just in time, clamping a firm hand over his mouth before he could make a sound.

They had to stay quiet. They had to think.

But then—

A misstep.

A twig snapped under Stanley’s boot. Victor’s head jerked up, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness. He hesitated for a second before his expression darkened.

"Who is there," he growled.

Without warning, he took off toward the sound.

"Run," Stanley whispered.

And they did.

Heart pounding, feet barely touching the ground, the brothers bolted toward their car, knowing they had only seconds before Victor caught up.

—

Mara sighed, rubbing her belly absentmindedly as she searched the fridge for something satisfying. Pregnancy cravings were no joke. She settled on a plate of leftover pasta, barely heating it before digging in.

Her phone buzzed just as she shoved a forkful into her mouth.

Ethan.

She swiped to answer, chewing as she spoke. "Why are you calling this late?"

Ethan chuckled on the other end. "Why are you up?"

Mara swallowed quickly. "Pregnancy," she muttered. "It comes with a bottomless stomach."

"I can tell," he teased. "Your mouth is full."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "So, why did you call?"

He hesitated for a second, then said, "Just wanted to check on you." His voice was softer now, laced with something she couldn’t quite place. "And also... to tell you that even if you grow fat, I’ll still love you."

Mara scoffed, stabbing at her pasta. "I don’t need your sympathy. My baby will love me regardless."

Ethan laughed. "That, I don’t doubt." Then, after a beat, he said, "How about we go for your checkup tomorrow? I need to stop by the hospital anyway for some reports after my surgery."

Mara hesitated, twirling her fork between her fingers. "I’ll think about it."

Before Ethan could respond, the main door burst open.

Stanley and Stanford strode in, breathless, their faces pale. They locked the door behind them as if something—or someone—was after them.

Mara straightened instantly, alarm prickling at her senses as she goes to check who was ther with a kitchen knief, "What happened?" Ethan asked when Mara ends the call walking to the hall.

Stanley and Stanford exchanged a glance, their chests still rising and falling from their frantic run.

Mara’s heart pounded as she took in the sight of her brothers—Stanley gripping their grandfather’s watch so tightly his knuckles were white, Stanford’s face pale and unreadable. Whatever had happened, it was bad.

A cold chill ran down her spine.

"Steve!!! Stefan!!!" she yelled, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. She didn’t even think—her instincts took over.

Upstairs, doors flew open almost immediately.

Steve and Stefan were both light sleepers, and the urgency in their sister’s voice had them moving before they were even fully awake.

They thundered down the stairs, their faces sharp with concern.

"Stef?" Steve’s eyes darted between them. "What’s wrong?"

Stefan, still in his undershirt, ran a hand through his messy hair, but his gaze was locked on Stanley and Stanford. "What happened?"