THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS

ELENA I was lying on the couch like a lazy seal, one hand resting protectively on my stomach, the other clutching the remote like it was my only companion in life. Almost seven months pregnant, swollen in all the wrong places, and apparently the only person awake in the entire mansion past midnight. The only soundtrack in the house was me cackling at stupid commercials.The Pick n Pay “Back to School” sale flashed across the screen, kids smiling way too hard while holding overpriced stationery. And finally, the Nando’s chicken commercial. Flame-grilled wings, that saucy voiceover, and I swear, my stomach growled on cue.I laughed loud, ridiculous, over-the-top because if I didn’t, the silence in this mansion would crush me. “Oh my God, Nando’s, you’re the only man who hasn’t let me down,” I told the TV, patting my belly like we were in on the joke together.Then a kick. A sharp one to my ribs.“Alright, alright,” I grunted, shifting to the side. “Don’t start with me, little wa

ELENAI knew our marriage was in trouble. I felt it for a long time, the widening gap between us, the way his eyes no longer lingered on me, the coldness that crept into his voice. I saw all the signs, every one of them, but I never imagined he would abandon me… abandon our child… when we needed him most. And yet, he had. He chose to stay with Isabelle.Isabelle, his first love. The ghost who never really left his heart. I always knew I was the replacement, the second choice. If she hadn’t suddenly disappeared and left him without a bride, I wouldn’t even be here. I wouldn’t be Mrs. Damian Blackwood. And yet, foolishly, I believed he had chosen me. I believed he understood the weight of marriage, that we were both bound to uphold our vows of fidelity, of loyalty. I thought… maybe, just maybe, he had come to see me. To see us.But I was wrong.The realisation pressed against my chest until I could hardly breathe. My lungs felt tight, the room too small, the air too thin. I rubbed

ELENA Sometimes I think I’m less of a wife and more of some grotesque exhibit tucked away in this mansion, Damian’s monster in the attic. Only I don’t get the benefit of solitude. I drag my heavy, swollen body around the house all day, and yet I may as well be invisible. The rooms are always filled with people he’s arranged, nurses, security, staff, but never him. They hover like shadows, polite but silent, watching without speaking, as though I might shatter if they acknowledged me.My friends stop by. My mother comes in shifts, always fussing, always urging me to eat more, sleep more, think less. And while I love them, their visits never plug the gaping hole in my chest. Because when they leave, and they always do; the silence rushes back in. The house grows cavernous again, echoing with nothing but my own thoughts.I sit there sometimes, staring at the way the light and shadows crawl across the walls, watching time slip through me like sand in an hourglass. I should be resting,

ELENA“How dare you hurt her?” His words hit harder than any hand could. “You’re a mother, yet you’re so cruel!”The crowd that had been staring, whispering, gawking, gone. Dismissed by him, like I was some scandal he wanted covered up as quickly as possible. Now it was just me, Damian, and Isabelle with her glass cuts and crocodile tears.“Damian, no…” I shook my head so hard my vision blurred, denial tumbling out of me in gasps. “I didn’t touch her. I swear it, I…”“That’s enough!” His roar shattered what little strength I had left. He looked at me as though I were something he regretted ever touching. “How could I not have realised you were such a vicious person before?”Vicious. I wanted to laugh hysterical, bitter, humourless laughter. I was the vicious one, while he was the one who’d been parading his ex-lover around like she was his queen.I watched him walk over and put his arms around Isabelle as if she were breakable glass.My stomach churned, my throat burning with a

DAMIAN Isabella was never the reason I was here. She was an excuse, a shield I could hold up to the world while I chased the ghost of a man I needed to find.Elena’s man. The stranger in the photographs that haunted me every night.I had combed New York for months, spent enough on private investigators to buy a fleet of jets, yet every trail ended in ash. But London held whispers. That was why I was here, why I’d left my wife alone. The woman who swore on her life she hadn’t betrayed me. God, the way she’d looked at me that time, eyes brimming with disbelief, anguish, begging me to believe her. If it weren’t for those damned photographs, I might have. But I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t the man who fell for sweet lies spun with teary eyes.I could still see them in my mind, the images I’d memorised, tortured myself with. Her delicate body tangled with his. The unmistakable birthmark below her hip, proof etched into her very skin. No camera trick, no forgery. I’d stared at them until