My Ex-Mr. Is Back and Wants Me Back

Wesley's POV

"Sir?" My secretary cautiously asked, peering into my office.

"What?" I grumbled, not in the mood to engage with another human being.

"You have to travel to New York today for the investors meeting. I've scheduled your flight for 8 tonight," she informed me.

"Fuck, fine," I muttered, dreading the thought of leaving LA.

"Just a heads up, the owner of—" She began, stepping into my office.

"I don't give a single fuck who it is. The deal will bring us more money. Now get the fuck out of my office," I snapped at her, my gaze still fixed on my laptop.

"Y-yes, sir," she stumbled over her words, retreating from my office.

Running my hand down my face in frustration, I grappled with the chaos that seemed to consume my life. When I had someone so perfect, I managed to ruin it. The only light and beauty I had been blessed with, I destroyed it.

When my former secretary, who had an unhealthy obsession with me, showed me pictures of Genevieve with another man, I believed her and divorced Genevieve. A year later, my old best friend Declan, who despised me for what I had said and done to Genevieve, investigated further and discovered that the pictures were fake—Genevieve never cheated. Even when I believed those pictures were real, I felt an emptiness without her. I delved into a promiscuous lifestyle, hoping to fill the gaping void in my chest, but nothing ever sufficed. Woman after woman, no matter how hard I tried to replace Genevieve, I failed. They were all pale imitations compared to her; our feelings for each other were genuine, while everything else felt counterfeit. Genevieve was real.

Upon learning the truth, I ceased my promiscuity and devoted all my time to searching for her. She was the only person who accepted me and helped me become a better person, and yet, I had pushed her away. I yearned to turn back time and erase everything I had said that night, but that was impossible. All I could do was find her and apologize.

Every aspect of her haunted me—the sensation of her blonde hair between my fingers, the memory of her captivating green eyes when I closed my own, her smile that could halt the world, and her breathtaking body. But more than the physical longing, it was the emotional connection I missed the most. She brought light and meaning to my life, even though I resisted admitting it. No one else could make me feel as genuinely happy as she did.

Every day, I hated myself for what I had done to her. "Wesley," someone called, entering my office.

"What?" I huffed, looking up from my laptop.

It was my private investigator, whom I had hired to find Genevieve, but he had no folder in his hands. 'Fuck,' I thought to myself.

"I don't have any information on her, sir," he said hesitantly.

"Get the fuck out. You're fired," I retorted, throwing my pens across the room in anger. The man hastily retreated, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

He had one fucking job—to find Genevieve—and he couldn't even accomplish that. Pathetic.

I grabbed the whiskey glass next to my laptop and hurled it across the room, watching as it shattered upon impact. My heart clenched with a mix of emotions and thoughts swirling in my head. It had been three long years, and I still hadn't found her, hadn't explained what had truly happened.

For three years, she believed that I despised her, that I meant every hurtful word I had said. I knew that with each passing day, she might start believing those awful things or worse, move on. Both possibilities made me sick to my stomach. Every day I'm not with her is another day she can use to forget about me.

She signed the divorce papers, returned the rings, and disappeared. She no longer carries my last name, my promises, or my love. She has nothing to remind her of me. Yet, every waking moment, my mind is consumed by her thoughts. I worry about her, regret everything I did, and know that she likely harbors nothing but hate for me.

So many people tell me that if I truly love something, I must let it go. But I am weak. I can not live without her, and these past three years have only intensified that realization. Life holds no joy for me; the word "home" has lost its meaning without her, and the phrase "I love you" has no purpose unless it is spoken to her.

"Sir?" My secretary timidly called from the doorway of my office.

"For heaven's sake, what?" I screamed in frustration, my anger misdirected.

"You have to leave for the airport now," she trembled.

"Fine, now leave me," I demanded, dismissing her. She nodded, hastily closing the door behind her.

I walked over to the window in my office, desperately scanning the city below, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, her golden locks bouncing as she walked. But alas, there was no sign of her. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, overcome with frustration.

Stepping away from the window, I grabbed my briefcase and made my way out of the office, glaring at my secretary, who appeared frightened beyond measure.

"Let's get this pointless shit over with," I muttered, rolling my eyes at her evident nervousness.

As I thought about the upcoming trip, I couldn't shake the feeling that it would be a futile endeavor. "This trip is going to be a waste of my time," I mused to myself, already resigned to the belief that finding her would be an impossible task.