HIS REGRET (Ex-Husband wants Me Back) novel Chapter 399

**Shadows of the Past – By Emma Clarke**

**Chapter 399**

In a realm far removed from the glittering skyscrapers, bustling boardrooms, and the inviting rows of cafés where patrons savored their coffee alongside decadent, sugar-laden cakes, there lay a hidden enclave. Here, the dilapidated buildings stood as ghosts behind a row of storage warehouses long forsaken by time. This location was a world away from the city’s main thoroughfares, where the cacophony of traffic was but a distant memory. The honk of horns was an infrequent visitor, and even the phone signals seemed to falter here, as though the universe itself had chosen to erase this place from existence.

The solitary warehouse was illuminated by a feeble yellow bulb, dangling precariously from the ceiling like a forgotten star. Its meager light barely touched the damp, crumbling walls, where peeling paint revealed layers of ancient cement underneath, each layer a testament to years gone by. The atmosphere was thick and suffocating, saturated with the acrid scent of cheap cigarettes, stale coffee, and iron dust that had settled for years without a whisper of disturbance.

There were no windows in this forsaken space, only a small, rusted vent that struggled to permit even a whisper of fresh air. Every sound—the scrape of a chair, the slow intake of breath, the flick of a lighter—echoed painfully, resonating softly before fading into the shadows that clung to the corners of the room like secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Seated comfortably on a rickety chair, one of its legs precariously propped up by a wooden block to stave off collapse, a man appeared at ease. His shoes, scuffed and worn, rested atop a battered wooden table, marred with deep scratches—evidence of heavy objects that had once been slammed down in moments of frustration or anger. His posture was far too relaxed for such a cramped, filthy hideout, suggesting that he viewed this space not as a refuge but as a throne he ruled without contest.

Before him, an old flat-screen television flickered silently, casting a cold, ominous red glow across the room. The screen displayed stock charts in a steady decline, the downward lines moving slowly, inevitably—like the fading heartbeat of someone teetering on the edge of life itself.

Outside, the rain tapped gently against the warehouse’s tin roof, each drop creating a broken rhythm that seemed to echo the desolation within. No vehicles passed by, no other souls lingered nearby. The silence was so profound it felt almost sinister—yet it was this very stillness that made it the ideal place to conceal something rotten.

A thin smile played on the man’s lips, barely discernible in the flickering light. In this oppressive silence, satisfaction did not require vocalization. He had bided his time, eagerly anticipating the moment when destruction would unfold precisely as he had orchestrated it.

**CALLISTER GROUP SHARES CONTINUE TO PLUNGE.**

The man’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with pleasure.

“Perfect,” he murmured, the words almost a whisper. “Just as planned.”

In stark contrast, another man occupied a shadowy corner of the room. His appearance was sharply defined against the casual demeanor of the man seated at the center. Dressed in a crisp suit, glasses perched on his nose to aid his vision in the dim light, he clutched several files in his hands, poised to deliver a report.

“The tax inspection will be announced tomorrow morning. The media has already received a leak of the findings, sir,” he stated, his voice steady but tinged with anticipation.

“Good,” the seated man replied with a casual air. “Let them busy themselves extinguishing the flames in their own house.”

“And what’s the plan?” the man inquired, leaning forward, intrigued.

“Simple.” The second man dragged a chair closer, daring to sit not too far from the man who seemed to orchestrate the unfolding chaos surrounding Daven. “A small incident—just enough to be dramatic. Fearful tears. The kind of scene that elicits sympathy without much effort.”

“And Althea?” the seated man pressed, his interest sharpening. “Will she be there too?”

The smile on the second man’s face widened, revealing a sense of triumph. “She will. Selena has made certain of it. A woman like her can never truly escape the shadows of the past.”

With a flick of his wrist, he switched off the television, plunging the room into deeper darkness.

“Callister will fall,” he murmured softly, his conviction unwavering. “From the outside. From within. And from the very hearts of its people.”

Outside, the rain intensified, pouring down in relentless sheets. Unbeknownst to them, every piece on the chessboard had begun to move, converging inexorably toward the same fateful point.