Year Five The Perfect Goodbye Plan novel Chapter 70

Silvia paused for a moment before ending the call, a soft, dismissive laugh escaping her lips. “Of course, he’s my fiancé.”

A chill flickered through her chest as she frowned, irritation prickling with every word she had to say. “We’ve broken up. Whatever he does now is none of my business, and vice versa.”

Fiancé?

On the other end, Shipley fell silent—rare for him. Gone was his usual playful tone; now, it sounded as if he forced each word through gritted teeth.

“Where’d you get a fiancé from? Not every man is going to indulge you the way I did.”

Silvia arched an eyebrow, her patience spent. She was about to hang up, but Shipley’s voice cut in. “Sweet Silvia, you’d better behave. Don’t think you can wind me up by hiring someone to play pretend. Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

He drew out the last few words, his voice dark and honeyed, as if savoring some private threat.

Silvia’s frown deepened. He was like a snake, cold and poisonous, coiling around her even through the phone.

Whatever affection she’d once felt for him was long gone. All that remained was disgust.

She ground out, “Shipley, if there’s something wrong with you, get help. My marriage is going great—so stop harassing me.”

Without another word, she hung up and promptly blocked his number.

Then she flopped back into bed, ready to reclaim her lost sleep.

These days, Shipley no longer had any hold over her.

Shipley, hearing the busy tone, sat motionless for a moment before letting out a low, humorless chuckle.

Sweet Silvia—still as fiery as ever.

But then, as something dawned on him, his gaze chilled. He lowered his eyes, thumbed back to her number, and dialed again.

Blocked.

Shipley’s frown deepened, unease creeping in.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a shrill, tearful cry echoed from the hallway.

A woman in a form-fitting dress came rushing in, her hair falling over her red, tear-streaked face and her eyes brimming with tears.

Vianne’s voice was ragged, desperate. Ignoring the assistant’s presence, she wailed, “Mr. Barlow, it’s my fault! I miscalculated the revenue projections and invested too much money, so now we’re hemorrhaging funds—”

She sobbed prettily, delicate and pitiful.

Once, Shipley would have comforted her without a second thought.

But now, with red numbers bleeding across the financial statements before him, he had no patience left. If anything, her sobbing only made his irritation worse.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke, Shipley narrowed his eyes. For a moment, he thought he saw Silvia standing there instead.

His Sweet Silvia—even three years ago, when she’d just started as his secretary, she never cried or lost her composure when things went wrong. She always kept her cool, handling problems with a calm that put the rest to shame...