The Ruthless CEO's Revenge Wife-Chapter 200: Food Is Not Enemy

Logan leaned forward slowly. "You mean to say that, you want to strip her of the very empire she built from dust while the rest of you wrote polite memos?"

Gerald gave a half hearted smile. "Emotions aside, this company doesn’t belong to one person. It belongs to the board and our shareholders. If her condition..."

"Her condition," Logan cut in, "is exhaustion. Brought on by carrying this company on her back while most of you measured your pensions."

Silence fell in the room. Tense and sharp. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Then one of the board members tries to defuse the tension. "You want her to rest? Fine. She’ll rest. I’ll personally enforce a leave."

"But if any of you try to twist that into a power play..." Logan stood, palms flat on the table, voice dropping to steel. "...You’ll find Kingsley Corporation withdrawing its strategic partnership. Our investments. Our international clients. All of it."

He let the words hang. Though he haven’t discussed this partnership with Jean yet... but to get these vultures off her back he used this lie.

"You think Jean Adams is replaceable. But I promise you, you wouldn’t last a week without her."

The silence was complete.

Even Gerald looked like he’d swallowed his tongue.

After a long moment, Logan stepped back.

"She’ll take a temporary break. I’ll manage oversight with her senior staff until she returns. And she will return." He adjusted his watch calmly. "Meeting adjourned."

And with that, he walked out... never giving them a chance to vote against her.

__________________________

The soup smelled like home.

Which was strange... because Jean never really knew what home smelled like.

She sat at the kitchen island in silence while Martha ladled steaming golden broth into a porcelain bowl. The scent of herbs and slow cooked chicken filled the space like a gentle embrace. The staff had stepped away. The kitchen was now calm.

Just the two of them.

Martha placed the bowl in front of her, a spoon already waiting.

Jean stared at it for a moment.

Martha didn’t sit. She stood beside her, eyes soft but unwavering.

"Eat, sweetheart," she said gently.

Jean picked up the spoon.

Her hands didn’t shake... not really but her chest did something funny. Tight strings pulled. Sharp. Like she was being seen in a way that made her want to run.

She took a sip. Swallowed.

Martha waited.

Two more spoonfuls in, Jean felt her appetite stutter. Her hand slowed.

Martha noticed. Of course she did.

"Jean," she said, voice low. "Why do you treat food like it’s your enemy?"

Jean froze.

The spoon hovered in her hand, barely an inch from the bowl. The smell of rosemary hit her harder now. Like memories.

"I don’t..."

But she didn’t finish that lie.

Martha pulled out the chair beside her. Sit down slowly.

"Everyone sees it, you know. The way you avoid it. Not just skipping meals, but... ignoring hunger like it’s a flaw."

Jean placed the spoon down, very gently. She doesn’t need to talk about it but she also doesn’t need to hide it either.

Her voice was a whisper. "I was always told to eat only what’s necessary."

Martha didn’t interrupt.

"Not when I was little. Back then, I think I liked food. But the older I got..." Jean swallowed tightly. "...the more the dining table became something else. Forced to attend blind dates, taunts in the name of lectures, remarks about my thighs. My mother thought the less I ate, the better I looked. My father agreed."

She looked down at the soup.

"So I stopped fighting it. At first, I tried to eat like a normal girl. But then I’d get comments. Unwanted attention. Or worse... disappointment. So eventually, I suppose a habit was made to treat food like a threat."

Martha didn’t speak. Her hand simply reached across the table and covered Jean’s.

Jean stared at the veins on Martha’s hand. The warmth.

"It wasn’t about hunger anymore," she whispered. "It was about control. About not giving them anything else to criticize. Or... punish."

Martha’s voice came like a steady current.

"And now?"

Jean blinked.

"Now I don’t know how to stop."

Silence.

Then Martha, without letting go of her hand, smiled softly.

"Then let’s start with this bowl. Just this one."

Jean looked at her. Her throat tightened as tears threatened to come out from her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, she picked up the spoon again... not because she was hungry.

But because someone cared enough to stay.

____________________________

The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hallway.

Jean looked up from the blanket draped over her lap, nestled in the living room sofa where Martha had effectively stationed her like a convalescing general.

She heard familiar voices... Hannah’s animated chatter first, then the deep rumble of Logan’s response.

Martha, who had been knitting beside her with military precision, didn’t look up.

"Your husband’s back from slaying dragons," she murmured dryly. "Let’s see if he brought treasure or more trouble."

Jean smiled, the kind that barely touched her lips but settled deep in her chest.

A moment later, Hannah strode in, dropping her bag with dramatic flair.

"We have returned!" she announced. "And Logan almost turned the boardroom into a crime scene. You should’ve seen Gerald’s face... it looked like someone served him raw tofu."

Logan followed close behind, eyes immediately finding Jean. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up... war weary but still magnetic.

"Hey," he said softly, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Jean stood slowly, careful not to stir her healing body too fast, and crossed the space to him.

"You left without saying goodbye," she said, feigning a pout.

Logan gave her a guilty smile, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Didn’t want to wake you. You needed rest."

"Still..."

"Fine," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Next time, I’ll leave a kiss and a handwritten apology."

Hannah gagged playfully from the couch. "Gross. Please, some of us are still single."