My Two Billionaire Husbands: A Plan for Revenge-Chapter 243: Wedding Announcement

Cammy slid into the seat beside Eve just as Cassey moved to a smaller table, joining Dylan and his nanny near the corner where Mrs. Moore had laid out treats and little party favors for the kids.

The shift in seating left Greg directly across from Cammy, the space between them suddenly feeling suffocating despite the crowded restaurant.

Richard settled in beside Greg, while Ric sat protectively close to Cammy’s side, their arms occasionally brushing as they adjusted themselves at the long table.

Eve and Harry exchanged subtle, loaded glances, their eyes darting between Cammy and Greg—the tension at the table so thick it was nearly tangible.

Cammy stared at her untouched ceramic charger, feeling Greg’s silent presence burning into her skin, though neither of them dared meet the other’s eyes.

The silence dragged—heavy, brittle, unbearable—until Richard, in his typical straightforwardness, shattered it.

"Why is everyone so damn quiet?" he asked, chuckling lightly as he reached for his tea.

Eve was the first to recover, her smile a little too quick, a little too bright.

"I guess everyone’s just worn out from lifting boxes and arranging stuff in the apartments," she said, her voice breezy, trying—and failing—to smooth the jagged edges in the room.

Richard laughed, the sound deep and unbothered. "Can’t say I relate. I only lifted my grandson’s crayons today." He chuckled at his own joke, but the laughter that followed from the others was strained, polite at best, as if they were all pretending they didn’t feel the storm gathering at the table.

Then, without warning, Richard turned, his gaze direct.

"Cammy, Ric—" he said, his voice loud enough to claim everyone’s attention, "—I assume everyone here’s invited to the wedding?"

The table froze.

All eyes shifted to Cammy and Ric.

Except for Greg.

He remained glued to his phone, his thumb mindlessly scrolling, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.

Cammy’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Not because she hadn’t thought about the guest list—but because she hadn’t found the courage yet to speak the words aloud with him sitting right there.

"Y-Yes," she managed, her voice taut, her throat dry.

She forced a small smile. "Including Mr. and Mrs. Moore, of course."

The atmosphere vibrated with unsaid words, like a bowstring pulled so tight it was moments away from snapping.

At that exact moment, Mrs. Moore appeared beside them, balancing a tray of steaming tea.

"I heard the word ’wedding’—who’s getting married?" she asked, setting the cups down with a bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Cammy hesitated—her hand trembling slightly as she lifted it.

"Me... and Ric," she said softly, the admission slipping into the space between them like a drop of ink into clear water—spreading, darkening.

Mrs. Moore’s hands stilled for the barest second.

Her smile faltered just a fraction before she expertly masked it, her eyes instinctively flickering to Greg.

He still hadn’t looked up.

Still hadn’t moved.

But everyone—everyone except Richard—saw it.

The way his fingers dug hard into the edge of his phone, knuckles blanching, the leather case creaking slightly under the force of his grip.

Mrs. Moore forced a small laugh, trying to carry the conversation forward.

"Well now, when’s the big day? This old lady needs time to find a fancy dress—and a gift that’s good enough for our Cammy!"

Cammy swallowed hard, feeling her heart hammering wildly against her chest.

She hadn’t meant to drop the news like this.

Hadn’t meant to throw it into the middle of their fragile gathering like a grenade.

"In less than two weeks," she said, the words cracking slightly at the edges.

"Before Dylan’s cast comes off."

The reaction was immediate.

Mrs. Moore gasped softly, Eve stiffened, Harry’s eyes widened.

But it was Greg’s reaction—or rather, his lack of it—that tore at her the most.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even acknowledge the explosion she had just set off.

But Cammy saw it.

The death grip on his phone.

The way his entire body was rigid, as if he was barely holding himself together.

As if he was one breath away from falling apart.

Sensing the unbearable tension still clinging to the table like a second skin, Eve stood abruptly.

"I’ll help Mrs. Moore serve the food," she said, her voice a little too bright.

Before anyone could answer, Greg was on his feet too, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.

"I’ll help too," he muttered, not looking at anyone in particular.

Mrs. Moore blinked at them, a bit startled, but welcomed the help nonetheless.

Together, the three of them disappeared into the kitchen, leaving behind an awkward silence that even the clinking of teacups couldn’t mask.

Inside the kitchen, the comforting smell of broth and freshly fried gyoza filled the air, but Greg barely noticed. His steps were sharp, erratic, his body taut with a violent, invisible tension.

Eve called his name softly, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

He kept walking—past the prep tables, past the shelves stacked with clean bowls—until he reached the small office tucked away at the very end of the kitchen.

The door creaked open under his hand, and Greg slipped inside, nearly slamming it behind him.

Eve hesitated for half a second before following, a deep pit forming in her stomach. She pushed the door open carefully—and what she saw made her heart twist painfully.

Greg was sitting on the floor, his back slumped against the wall, his hands trembling violently.

Silent at first.

But then the first ragged sob tore from his chest—and he crumpled forward, his arms wrapping around himself in a desperate, broken attempt to hold himself together.

Eve knelt down beside him without a word, her hand gently finding his shoulder, grounding him, offering silent comfort.

She had never seen Greg like this.

Not even when everything had first fallen apart between him and Cammy.

This was deeper.

Worse.

This was a man watching the last piece of his heart get ripped away—and being utterly powerless to stop it.

Footsteps sounded from behind them, and Eve turned to see Mr. Moore standing at the threshold, his face etched with worry and something that looked a lot like sorrow.

He took in the scene with one grim sweep of his eyes—the way Greg was shaking, the way Eve hovered uselessly over him—and his jaw hardened.

"You should go, Eve," Mr. Moore said quietly but firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"But—"

"Go help my wife," he repeated, sharper this time, a shadow crossing his normally gentle features.

Eve swallowed, torn, but nodded. She cast one last glance at Greg—at the boy who used to laugh so easily, who now looked shattered beyond repair—and slipped out the door, leaving Mr. Moore alone with him.

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing them inside.

Mr. Moore exhaled heavily and stepped closer to the broken man on the floor.

He crouched down, his voice low, almost a growl. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"Alright, son. Let it out," he said.

"Because after this, you’ll have a decision to make."