Page 121 of Jealous Billionaire's Endless Regret

“I’ll give you ten million,” he said casually. “No—forget that. I’ll give you a hundred million. Or better yet, name your price. How much do you want to walk away and never show your face near her again?”

Darren smirked, amused but not impressed. He stepped forward slowly, standing straighter. His voice dropped, calm and razor-sharp.

“Who said I want your money?” He tilted his head. “Do you really think it’s that easy to buy me off?”

Darren straightened, stepping closer.

“I don’t get it,” Darren continued. “You were desperate to divorce her before. Now you’re suddenly running after her like a madman. Why the change?”

Lorenzo’s jaw clenched. “Because back then, I didn’t understand her. I was pushed into responsibilities I wasn’t ready for.”

Darren gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Don’t you find it strange, Mr. Moretti? After all the ways you hurt her these past years… why do you think she’d stay now?”

His voice dropped, slower now, more personal. “Back then, I let her stay with you for two years because I thought that’s what she wanted. I wanted her to be happy. But I can’t let her repeat the same mistake. Not again.”

Lorenzo’s eyes darkened, a dangerous glint behind them.

“I told you,” he said, each word sharp, measured, “I was forced to make that decision. But I’m not giving her up again. Not for anyone.”

He cast one last look at the untouched lunchbox still sitting on the table—then turned and walked out the front door without another word.

The place fell quiet again.

A quiet click echoed as Darren locked the front door behind Lorenzo and disappeared into his room, the hallway swallowing his shadow.

Several seconds passed.

Then—another soft click.

Krystal’s bedroom door creaked open. She stepped out barefoot, her oversized t-shirt brushing her thighs, her face unreadable. The light in the living room cast soft shadows along her arms as she walked slowly across the floor.

She stopped in front of the lunchbox.

Her eyes flicked to the door, still closed and quiet. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

And then, hesitantly, her fingers reached out.

She popped open the lid.

Inside—fried rice, slightly clumped from too much oil. A few meatballs, unevenly shaped and browned a little too much on one side. A folded omelet, slightly overcooked on the edges and torn in the middle.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t pretty.

But itsmelledlike effort.

Krystal swallowed hard, something tightening behind her ribs.

She stared at it in silence for a long beat before snapping the lid shut with a sharp motion.

“What’s he trying to prove with this pity act?” she muttered under her breath, trying to push away the ache rising in her chest.

She turned to walk away but her feet slowed. Froze.

Her mind drifted—uninvited—back to the way Lorenzo’s hands looked earlier. Raw. Red. Angry welts blooming across his skin. Some areas looked deeper, the skin broken. And none of it had been bandaged.

“So many burns…” she muttered, arms crossing tightly around herself. “He didn’t even bother with medicine. Came all the way here like that. Always so dramatic.”

But her voice didn’t carry the anger she wanted it to. Just tight frustration—and a quiet flicker of something else.

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