Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 107

Chapter 107 Haunting Ghosts Of Her Pain

The digital clock on my glass desk read two in the morning. I sat in the executive office of the Aegis headquarters. The building was dark and quiet. I stayed late to review the European distribution contracts. I needed to keep my mind occupied. I needed to focus on logistics and profit margins.

If I stopped working, the image of Tristan standing in the underground garage would creep into my thoughts. His broken voice His desperate eyes. He did the math. He knew the timeline. He was hunting for the truth.

A sharp knock on the glass door broke the silence.

Diego Morales walked into the room. My head of acquisitions carried a thick stack of printed reports. He wore a rumpled gray

sweater. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking exhausted.

“He is not stopping,” Diego announced. He dropped the heavy stack of papers onto the table.

I closed my laptop. My chest tightened. “Tell me the extent of the damage.”

“Tristan Johnston deployed three independent intelligence firms this afternoon,” Diego explained. He pointed to the top document.

“He handed them a blank check. They are tearing Port Sterling apart. They are searching for a specific paper trail.

“Medical records,” I guessed.

“Intake forms. Hospital bills. Birth certificates,” Diego confirmed. “They focused on the charity wards in the industrial district. They are throwing millions of dollars at the hospital administrators. They want the archives from three years ago.”

I leaned back in my leather chair. I paid Eduardo Valdez a significant amount of money to hide Elias’s birth certificate behind a wall

of shell corporations and fake names. I buried my medical history deep in the system.

“The records are encrypted,” I reminded Diego.

“Money talks, Minerva,” Diego warned. The harsh reality settled over the room. “Tristan is offering massive bounties. His men are interviewing nurses. They are showing your photograph to clinic staff on the night shifts. It is a matter of time before a desperate worker remembers a pregnant woman from three years ago. The Johnston wealth can open any door in this city.”

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. A dull headache pounded in my temples. Tristan was a man obsessed. He realized

the timeline fit. Now, he wanted the documented proof. He wanted a piece of paper that gave him the right to demand access to my son.

He looked like a man who had not slept in days. The invincible, polished billionaire was gone. A hollow, broken shell stood in his place.

“You are waiting outside my building at two in the morning,” I stated. I stopped a few feet away. I kept my distance.

‘I cannot close my eyes,” Tristan said. His voice was a harsh, ragged scrape. “Every time I try to sleep, I see it.”

“See what?” I asked. I offered no sympathy.

“The clinic,” he whispered.

He stared at me with red, haunted eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He gripped it tight.

“My investigators pulled the public health reports for the Port Sterling charity wards,” Tristan continued. The horror in his voice was raw and bleeding. “They sent me photographs of the facilities. The peeling paint on the walls. The broken medical equipment. The overcrowding.”

He took a step toward me. He stopped himself. His hands curled into tight fists.

“They told me women labor in the hallways,” Tristan said. His chest heaved with uneven breaths. “They told me the nurses turn people away because they lack beds. I read the mortality rates, Minerva. I read the statistics for infant survival in those wards.”