My Husband’s New Fiancée (Billionaires of Paris #5)

I’m Not Dead Yet

Valeria

The first time I see him again after being declared dead, he’s behind the wheel of a Lamborghini.

The black-and-orange car glides to a stop outside the H?tel de Crillon, engine humming softly beneath the golden glow of the square.

Parked a short distance from the entrance, I stare at the man behind the wheel.

Dante Ivanov.

My breath catches.

The driver’s door swings open.

He steps out with the same effortless confidence I remember—six-foot-one and all brutal elegance in a midnight-blue three-piece suit. Broad shoulders shift beneath the tailored fabric as he shuts the door behind him.

His left hand—the one that used to wear my wedding ring—tosses the keys to the valet without a glance.

He looks the same.

Except he doesn’t.

I see it in the harder line of his mouth. In the cold distance in his eyes. In the way he moves now, like the world stopped being capable of hurting him a long time ago.

Something in him died.

The part that loved me.

My vision blurs for a second. I swallow hard before the tears can rise.

Then he opens the passenger door.

My stomach tightens.

Because I already know who’s about to step out.

Dante smiles at her. Slow. Intimate. The kind of smile that used to melt me from the inside out. Once, it belonged to me. Now it belongs to the woman he’s going to marry.

My grip tightens around the steering wheel.

I tear my eyes away from Dante and look at her.

Bianca Fabre.

Soon to be Bianca Ivanov, if the engagement announcements already circulating online are anything to go by.

My best friend.

The woman who tried to kill me.

Her manicured fingers settle over Dante’s hand as she steps gracefully from the car, wrapped in cashmere and champagne silk. Dark waves spill over her shoulders.

She leans toward him and whispers something in his ear.

He laughs quietly.

I haven’t heard that sound in two years.

Then she slips her arm through his, possessive enough to make my chest ache.

The biotech mogul and his future wife.

The perfect fairy tale.

Except Prince Charming is my husband.

No. Was my husband. He stopped being mine the day the world declared me dead.

I watch them disappear through the hotel entrance, my lungs burning so badly I forget how to breathe for a second.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Hugo’s voice cuts cleanly through the spiral in my head.

I turn toward him.

He sits beside me in an Armani tuxedo, dark hair slicked back, expression unreadable except for the tension gathered around his eyes.

Hugo never misses anything.

“Because once we walk in there,” he says quietly, “there’s no going back.”

My gaze drifts back to the entrance of the Crillon. To the doors Dante disappeared through with her.

I force myself to inhale slowly.

Dante is going to feel betrayed. Maybe he hates me for this.

I don’t even know if I blame him.

But fear is a hard thing to kill once it settles into your bones.

The entire world believes I died two years ago. If someone wanted me gone a second time, it would be easy. Unless I make sure everyone sees me come back.

My enemies won’t move if every eye in Paris is fixed on me.

At least, that’s the theory.

I close my eyes briefly.

When I open them again, I bury the panic where it belongs.

And together, we step out into the freezing December air.

I’m Valeria Delorme.

Biochemist.

Co-founder of Aurenza Biotech.

And tonight, I’m taking my life back.

“Let’s go.”

The December air cuts sharp against my skin as we climb the steps toward the ballroom.

My pulse pounds harder with every step.

Two years ago, I walked into a gala almost identical to this one. Hours later, I vanished into the Seine.

I still remember the freezing water closing over my head, the darkness.

I push the memory down before it can drag me under with it.

The gilded doors swing open.

Light spills across marble floors and crystal chandeliers. White roses overflow from towering centerpieces. Waiters move silently through the crowd carrying trays of champagne beneath ceilings painted in gold leaf.

Wealth has a very specific smell. Expensive perfume. Fresh flowers. Old money.

Conversations falter the second Hugo and I step inside.

Then the whispers begin.

Some of them say my name out loud.

“Valeria Ivanov.”

Shock spreads through the ballroom in visible waves.

Phones appear almost instantly.

Of course they do.

Nobody stops to think they might be looking at a ghost.

My gaze moves through the crowd automatically, searching for him. Finding him.

Dante stands near the bar with a champagne glass in one hand, speaking to his CFO while Bianca rests elegantly against his side.

He hasn’t seen me yet.

For one fragile second, I almost want to leave before he does.

Then his head lifts.

Our eyes meet across the ballroom.

The champagne flute slips from his hands and shatters on the floor.

Conversation around him dies instantly.

Dante doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

Relief hits his face first.

Raw and devastating enough to nearly destroy me on the spot.

Then disbelief crashes over it.

And finally—

Rage.

Real rage.

The kind that turns his entire body still.

The room suddenly feels too small to breathe in.

Dante walks on the broken glass without taking his eyes off me.

Bianca says something to him. He doesn’t react. Then he starts walking toward me, slow and controlled. But there’s something dangerous underneath that control, something barely leashed and getting worse with every step.

Around us, three hundred people watch in absolute silence.

Nobody knows whether they’re about to witness a reunion or a disaster.

Honestly?

Neither do I.

Dante stops in front of me.

Close enough that I can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

Two years, and my body still recognizes him instantly.

His gaze moves over my face like he’s trying to decide whether I’m real.

“Dante—”

His hand closes around my wrist before I can finish.

The movement isn’t violent but it isn’t gentle either.

A sharp breath catches in my throat. For one irrational second, panic flashes through me so fast it feels physical. My pulse spikes. My muscles lock. Trapped.

The sensation disappears almost as quickly as it came, drowned out by the familiar heat of his touch.

Dante notices the reaction.

I see it in the way his expression hardens.

“Wait…” Hugo begins, stepping forward to block the way.

But Bianca rushes in before he can continue.

“Valeria.”

Her voice breaks beautifully on my name. Then she throws her arms around me.

Silk. Perfume. Warm skin.

I go completely rigid. Every instinct I have screams at me to push her away.

To tell them. Tell Dante what she did. Tell everyone.

This woman tried to kill me.

But accusations without proof are useless. Dangerous, even.

So I stand there frozen while she trembles dramatically against me.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “We thought you were dead.”

We.

The word lands like poison.

Dante’s grip on my wrist tightens slightly. The pressure grounds me more than it should.

Even now, some traitorous part of me still feels safer when he’s touching me.

I hate that. I hate that after everything, my body still remembers him as home.

Bianca finally pulls back, eyes wet and shining.

“How are you here?” she asks shakily. “Where have you been?”

I look at her, trying to find some trace of guilt beneath the flawless grief on her face.

I find nothing.

Dante speaks before I can answer.

“Move.”

Bianca blinks at him in surprise.

He never looks away from me.

“I need to speak to my wife.”

The word slices straight through me.

Judging by the flicker in Bianca’s expression, it affects her too.

Hugo steps closer immediately.

“I said move.”

Quietly spoken. Somehow, that makes it worse.

The tension surrounding him shifts, turning heavier, darker. Several people nearby instinctively step back.

Bianca recovers first.

“Of course,” she says softly, touching Dante’s arm.

He doesn’t react to her touch at all, not even a glance.

That tiny detail shouldn’t matter.

Somehow, it does.

Hugo turns to me, concern etched across his face. I nod once.

He steps back, jaw tight, his eyes locked on Dante.

Dante starts walking, taking me with him.

I should pull away. I don’t.

My body never got the memo that he stopped being mine.

The ballroom blurs behind us as he leads me down a quieter corridor lined with marble and gold trim. His grip never loosens.

He opens the door to a private lounge and ushers me inside with cold efficiency.

The moment the door shuts behind us, silence crashes into the room.

Dante releases my wrist.

The sudden absence of his touch feels strangely brutal.

He turns away immediately, walks stiffly toward the fireplace, crouches before the flames, and grabs the poker. His hand trembles slightly as he adjusts a log.

For several seconds, neither of us speaks.

I watch the rigid line of his shoulders rise and fall.

Then:

“Where were you?”

His voice is low, sharp, hollow. The voice of a man who asked that question into the void a thousand times and stopped expecting an answer.

I wish I could tell him.

But what I have to say can’t be spoken half-dazed with emotion, locked in a room where we’re both bleeding raw. Not like this. Not tonight.

He takes my silence as an answer.

“Two years. Two fucking years without a word. And now you show up here tonight like nothing happened. Tell me how exactly I’m supposed to interpret that.”

At last, he turns to face me. His eyes sweep slowly, methodically, over me, taking inventory. I watch him shut down more with every passing second.

“So you were alive this whole time.”

His voice is cold. Empty of any obvious emotion. But I know him—I know the cracks hidden beneath that ice, the way his jaw tightens when he swallows back something he refuses to show.

“You really made a fool out of me.”

Every word lands like a sentence.

“I hope you enjoyed watching me grieve you like an idiot.”

No.

The scream lodges in my throat.

No, Dante, you’re so wrong. You have no idea what these past two years cost me.

But he doesn’t give me the chance to speak. He rises to his feet, and something changes in his expression—a deliberate hardness like he’s searching for the exact spot to drive the knife.

“But don’t worry. I didn’t stay heartbroken forever.”

His voice drops lower.

“I found someone else. She was there when I hit rock bottom. And soon, she’ll be my wife.”

My hand tightens around my own arm.

He watches me closely, waiting for a reaction. He notices the movement immediately. A cruel smile curves his mouth—and that smile hurts most of all, because it isn’t his. It isn’t the smile of the man I loved. It’s the one forged by two years of grief and bitterness.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?” he says softly. “Or did you forget Bianca too? Your best friend. The one you abandoned along with me.”

You couldn’t be more wrong.

The man I once loved is looking at me with contempt.

Not hatred. Something worse.

People come back from hatred. Hatred is still passion, still attachment.

Contempt means someone has already given up. Already drawn the line.

And I can’t say anything in my defense. Because I still don’t know where his loyalties lie.

Because if he once loved me without reservation, he now sleeps beside the woman who plotted my death.

And until I know where his allegiance stands, every word out of my mouth could become a weapon in the wrong hands.

So I stay silent.

And watch him come closer, one step, then another.

I catch the scent of cedarwood and citrus. The same cologne he always wore. My body remembers it too well.

Instinctively, I straighten the moment his hand twitches—an impulse he stops before it fully forms, before it can reach me. His arm falls back to his side. He looks away.

When he speaks again, something in his voice has changed.

“Why did you come back?”

The fury is gone. What remains is worse: a deep exhaustion, almost resignation. The kind that comes after anger burns itself out and leaves only emptiness behind.

“I came back to reclaim what belongs to me.”

My voice doesn’t shake. I’m almost surprised by it myself.

“I want my shares in Aurenza returned to me.”

He flinches. His eyes widen for the briefest second before narrowing dangerously.

“Of course.”

A bitter laugh escapes him, humorless.

“So you heard about the funding round.”

Contempt drips from every word. He thinks I came back for the money.

Suddenly, the realization hits me with brutal clarity:

We don’t know each other anymore.

He thinks I’m greedy.

I doubt his loyalty.

After five years of marriage and two years apart, we’ve become strangers again.

Worse.

Opponents.

“You’ll get your shares back through our lawyers.”

He’s already turning away. His hand settles on the gold door handle.

“But don’t expect anything else from me.”

He opens the door. Hallway light cuts across his silhouette.

“You died to me two years ago, Valeria.”

The door slams shut.

Silence crashes down immediately afterward.

His words linger in the air like an open wound.

He learned how to live without me.

And yet… the man I saw standing in front of me tonight was anything but indifferent.

But I can’t afford hope.

My life depends on it.

Fine.

I’ll fight this battle without him.