My Billionaire Ex Won't Let Me Go

I'll never forget that phone call.

"Ms. Reed, there's a charity auction at the Met tomorrow night. We need you to cover an interview." The voice from the editorial office sounded rushed. "The interviewee specifically requested you."

Specifically requested? My grip tightened on the phone. I'd only been back in New York for three months, and I was nothing more than an obscure freelance journalist. What could possibly warrant a "specific request"?

"Who's the interview subject?"

"Ronald Ashworth. That Wall Street finance prodigy."

The phone nearly slipped from my hands.

Ronald Ashworth. The name I thought I'd never have to hear again in this lifetime.

"Ms. Reed? Are you still there?"

"Yes..." I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound normal. "No problem. I'll be there on time."

After hanging up, I collapsed onto the couch in this shabby apartment. The calendar on the wall reminded me it was October 15th. It had been exactly six years since I left New York.

This couldn't be a coincidence.

But I told myself this city had eight million people. He couldn't possibly know I was back. Much less know I was living in this dump in Brooklyn, barely scraping by writing for tabloids.

I glanced at the photo on my nightstand—my foster mother lying in a hospital bed, pale and gaunt. Medical bills piling up like mountains. I had no choice.

Even if it meant facing Ronald, I had to go.

The next evening, the Metropolitan Museum blazed with lights.

Standing at the entrance, watching the elegantly dressed men and women flowing in and out, I suddenly felt completely out of place. I wore a black suit from a thrift store, carrying a cheap reporter's bag, like an ugly duckling that had wandered into a flock of swans.

"Are you Ms. Irene Reed?" A young man approached me. "I'm Mr. Ashworth's assistant. He's waiting for you inside."

I nodded and followed him into the museum.

The Egyptian wing had been transformed into an auction venue, crystal chandeliers casting light over clinking glasses and murmured conversations. My gaze involuntarily searched through the crowd, and then... I saw him.

Ronald Ashworth.

Six years had passed, and he'd become more mature, more... dangerous. That custom suit hugged his tall frame perfectly, his college-boy air replaced by the sharp edges of an elite businessman. But those deep gray eyes still made my heart race.

Stay calm, Irene. This was just an interview.

He noticed me. When our eyes met, the entire world seemed to fall silent for a second. Then he said something to the person beside him and walked toward me.

"Irene." His voice was still that deep, magnetic tone, but with a dangerous edge I couldn't quite identify. "Long time no see."

"Mr. Ashworth." I forced a professional smile. "Thank you for agreeing to this interview."

The corner of his mouth curved into an almost imperceptible smile. "Call me Ronald. Like before."

Before. The word cut through my heart like a knife.

"Let's find somewhere quiet to talk," he said, gesturing for me to follow.

We found a relatively secluded corner and sat across from each other. I pulled out my recorder and notepad.

"What would you say is the secret to your success?" I began with my prepared questions.

Ronald didn't answer immediately. He just looked at me with that gaze that reminded me of how he used to look at me in college—focused, intense, as if I were the center of his world.

"Finding what I want," he finally spoke, "and then getting it by any means necessary."

My pen paused on the paper. "Could you be more specific?"

"For instance," he leaned forward, lowering his voice, "six years ago, I lost something. Something very precious."

My hand began to tremble slightly. "Did you... did you get it back?"

"Work in progress." His gaze locked onto mine. "After all, some things are worth waiting a lifetime for."

"Mr. Ashworth, perhaps we should discuss your business achievements instead," I tried to redirect.

"Ronald," he corrected me. "And did you really think I wouldn't know you were back?"

Blood seemed to freeze in my veins. "I don't understand what you mean."

"Three months ago, you flew back to New York from Chicago." His voice was terrifyingly calm. "Living in that old apartment building on Seventh Avenue in Brooklyn, third floor, left side. Your foster mother is at Presbyterian Hospital, room 426."

My recorder slipped from my hands, hitting the floor with a sharp crack.

"You're insane..." I tried to stand, but my legs felt like jelly.

"Six years, Irene." Ronald also stood, slowly walking toward me. "Did you think I'd give up?"

"We... we're over." I backed away. "It ended six years ago."

"Over?" His smile carried a dangerous edge I'd never seen before. "When did it end? The night you took the money and left? Or when you thought changing cities would let you escape me?"

My back hit the wall. Nowhere left to run.

"Do you know who's been paying your foster mother's medical bills?" His hand pressed against the wall beside me, trapping me between him and the wall. "Who handled your visa extension? How you got your current job?"

"No..." My voice was barely a whisper.

"You thought it was all coincidence?" Ronald's fingers gently traced my cheek, the gesture heartbreakingly tender. "Irene, my foolish girl. I've been taking care of you all these six years."

Tears spilled down my cheeks uncontrollably. "Why?"

"Because I love you." His thumb wiped away the tears on my face. "Loved you six years ago, love you now. Will keep loving you forever."

"But I..."

"You think you hurt me?" His voice became even softer, yet carried a chilling possessiveness. "You think that money meant anything to me? I could give you my entire empire, let alone a few million."

I pushed him away forcefully, shaking my head desperately. "Ronald, you don't understand. It's not what you think..."

"Then what is it?" He caught my wrist, not hard, but I knew I couldn't escape. "Tell me, what really happened six years ago?"

I looked into his eyes, seeing love, pain, and an almost obsessive determination. I wanted to tell him the truth, wanted to say I didn't leave because of greed, but to protect him. But that voice echoed in my mind again—

'If you dare tell the truth, Ronald Ashworth will die.'

"I... I have to go." I struggled to leave.

"No." Ronald's grip tightened. "This time, you're not going anywhere."

"You can't do this to me!"

"I can." His smile was gentle yet dangerous. "Welcome home, Irene. Six years is long enough. The game is over."

Looking into his eyes, I suddenly understood a terrifying truth—Ronald Ashworth was no longer the innocent college student from six years ago. He'd become someone I didn't recognize, someone with immense power who could control everything.

And I had completely fallen into the web he'd carefully woven.

"What... what else have you arranged?" I asked in a trembling voice.

Ronald released my wrist, straightening his tie, transforming back into that elegant Wall Street elite.

"Well," his smile held an unsettling satisfaction, "you'll find out soon enough. After all, we have all the time in the world."

He gave me one last lingering look, his eyes holding a promise that was both tender and terrifying—as if silently saying "there's nowhere you can run."

He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there alone, my heart pounding wildly.