Ex, Regret All You Want, I’m the Tycoon’s Wife Now!

Celine's POV

Kierra stood there, perfectly still, her expression dipped in sugar.

"My husband usually isn't like this," she said with an innocent tone that wasn't fooling anyone. "I don't know what got into him today."

She tilted her head, eyes wide as if she genuinely cared. "Celine, don't take it personally, okay? Even if you end up married to that 'living devil' Maxwell Pierson, who knows? Maybe it won't be so bad for you."

I didn't say a word. Not even a twitch of a smile.

When she realized I wouldn't play along, her fake sweetness cracked. Her lips pouted before she spun on her heel and walked off.

Later that evening, when I returned to the Pierson estate, I was surprised to find Max in the living room.

It was unusual. Typically, he left before sunrise and only came back after dark. When he was home, he stayed secluded either in his study or locked in the main bedroom.

He looked up from a file as I stepped in, his tone flat and even. "There's an event tomorrow. I need a companion. Are you ready? If not, I'll make other arrangements."

I blinked, caught off guard, then quickly checked my mental calendar.

"I'm ready," I said. "I'll go with you."

He gave me a brief nod, closed the folder in his hand, and stood up without saying another word.

...

The next day, we arrived together at the event.

Everything seemed normal at first. People mingled, glasses clinked, polite conversation buzzed in the air. But halfway through the evening, I turned to say something, and Max was gone.

A knot of panic twisted in my stomach.

And then it hit me—a sharp and unwelcome memory from my past life.

This very event. Max vanished halfway through, just like this, only to be ambushed at a nearby construction site. He survived, but he didn't walk away unscathed. The injuries were severe.

Without hesitating, I rushed to a nearby server and asked where the back exits were.

Once I received the directions, I lifted the hem of my gown and sprinted toward the unfinished building behind the venue.

The site was a mess. Steel beams jutted out at strange angles, and the ground was scattered with loose bricks and crumbling concrete.

I navigated the chaos as quickly as possible, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

"Max!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the hollow frame of the building.

No response.

Then I heard something. Shouting. It was coming from upstairs.

I raced toward the stairwell, climbed as fast as possible, and saw him when I reached the third floor.

Max was in the corner, surrounded.

A group of men was attacking him—relentless, organized, merciless. He was holding his own as best he could, but was outnumbered and outmatched. Within minutes, he was on the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His face was bruised and battered, and his clothes were stained with dirt and blood.

I didn't think. I just ran toward Max.

"Don't take another step!" I shouted at the attackers. "The security team will be here any minute!"

The men hesitated, their steps stalling, unease crossing their faces.

I rushed to Max's side and put an arm around his back to support him. He leaned into me, weak and trembling. Then one of the men pulled out his phone and made a call.

Whatever he heard on the other end made his face twist.

"Hmph. Pierson security?" one of the assailants scoffed. "They haven't even moved yet."

Then, the man said, "You're not getting out of here."

I clenched my grip on Max. My mind was racing, but I forced myself to stay calm.

If I panicked, I'd take him down with me.

The men closed in again.

I stepped in front of Max, backing up slowly with each advance until my heel caught nothing but air.

I froze.

We were at the edge of the building.

One step more and I'd fall.

They didn't stop. One of them moved forward and kicked me hard in the ribs. The pain was sharp and instant, causing me to grunt and collapse, sliding backward toward the edge.

I reached out for something to hold onto, but nothing was there.

Right as I started to go over, a hand grabbed my arm.

I looked up.

It was Max.

Even bloodied and bruised, he dragged himself across the concrete just to catch me.

"Hold on!" he growled, his voice strained.

His face was pale, sweat dripping down his brow.

But there wasn't time to process what had just happened. The assailants kept coming, their faces cold and focused. They wouldn't stop until we were both down.

Then, I saw a figure turn from nearby, his eyes locking on me.