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SEVENTY-FOUR

ผู้เขียน: Miss_X
last update ปรับปรุงล่าสุด: 2025-12-29 22:04:28

ELENA

After the call with Damian, my chest feels like it’s been scraped raw from the inside. Not bleeding—no. Worse, tender, exposed, and bruised in places I didn’t know, I still hurt. I need my mother. Not for advice or for comfort. Just… presence. Someone solid. Someone who won’t demand explanations or negotiations or DNA tests.

I head straight for her room. The door is too open. Her bed is perfectly made. Not recently made; carefully made. Hospital-corner neat. It's the kind of neat that means it hasn’t been slept in at all.

I stop in the doorway, my heart doing that unpleasant drop it’s been perfecting lately.

“Mom?” I call softly, then louder. “Mom?”

Nothing.

I step inside, checking the bathroom. Empty. Closet—untouched. Her handbag is gone. I exhale sharply and turn, walking down the corridor, my heels tapping faster than necessary.

“Mom?” I call again.

Still nothing. Then, a different voice that isn't my mother's response.

“She left.”

I turn to see Marina standing near the kitc
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  • THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS    EIGHTY-FIVE

    DAMIAN By the time I reach the office, my jaw hurts from how tightly I’ve been clenching it. The elevator ride to the top floor is silent except for the soft instrumental music meant to calm people. It fails spectacularly. I stare at my reflection in the mirrored walls, tie perfectly knotted, posture controlled, face unreadable, and all I can see is Elena standing on the road in that oversized hoodie, eyes sharp, wounded, unafraid to slice me open with the truth. You already did. The doors open. The floor freezes. Conversations die mid-sentence, keyboards slow, someone actually drops a pen. Good. If I’m going to have a hell of a morning, everyone else might as well feel it too. “Good morning,” my assistant chirps nervously, scrambling to stand. I don’t respond. I walk straight into my office, shrug off my jacket, and toss it onto the chair with more force than necessary. “Cancel my lunch,” I say flatly. “Yes, sir.” “And push the board meeting forward. Now.” She

  • THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS    EIGHTY-FOUR

    ELENAThe next day begins with chaos. Not the dramatic, headline-worthy kind, but the quiet, domestic chaos that only exists when a toddler decides the world should bend to her mood before eight in the morning.I wake to the unmistakable sound of tiny feet slapping against wooden floors and a very loud...“Mommyyyyy!”I barely have time to sit up before Angela launches herself onto the bed like a determined missile. Bun-Bun follows shortly after, landing squarely on my face.“Oof,” I groan. “Good morning to you too.”She giggles, completely unapologetic, climbing onto my stomach and sitting there like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she does. My house, my heart, and my entire nervous system she belonged.“It’s sunny,” she announces, pointing dramatically towards the curtains. “That means pancakes.”I squint at the clock.6:12 a.m.“Angela,” I say dryly, “the sun is rude. It comes up far too early.”She gasps. “Don’t be mean to the sun.”I laugh despite myself, pulling her into

  • THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS    EIGHTY-THREE

    By the time I pull into the driveway, the sky is already bruised purple and blue, the kind of evening that feels heavier than it looks. The engine idles for a few seconds longer than necessary because I’m not quite ready to go inside.Home used to mean safety. Now it feels like a room full of conversations waiting to ambush me.I switch off the car and sit there, hands still on the steering wheel, staring at the front door as if it might suddenly develop opinions of its own. My head is pounding, not the sharp kind of headache, but the dull, emotional kind that settles behind your eyes when you’ve held yourself together for too long.Arthur Blake.Damian.Courtrooms.Angela.I laugh quietly to myself, breathless and humourless.If someone had told me a year ago that my biggest problem would be choosing which emotional disaster to unpack first, I would have asked them what they were drinking and where I could get some.I finally step out of the car. The house is warm when I walk in, lig

  • THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS    EIGHTY-THREE

    ELENAWork is supposed to save me. That’s the lie I tell myself as I sit behind my desk, spine straight, shoulders squared, eyes glued to spreadsheets that blur no matter how many times I scroll. Numbers are obedient. They don’t ask questions. They don’t suddenly inform you that your entire genetic history has been rewritten by one sentence at a dinner table.Arthur Blake is my father. I mean, I would have probably acted differently if it wasn’t thee Arthur Blake, but it had to be him because the world hates me. When Isabelle and I were in our early 20s, I went there a lot at his house and shared dinner with him because he was Isabelle’s father. I sign a document harder than necessary. No, focus.I bury myself in reports, investor projections, acquisition models,anything that requires logic, strategy, and control. Anything that doesn’t have a pulse or a violin or a pair of familiar eyes that once looked at me like I was disposable.My phone buzzes for the fifth time in an hour.Arthu

  • THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS    EIGHTY-TWO

    DAMIAN The first thing I notice is that her car is crooked. Not parked, abandoned. Like she stopped breathing halfway through the motion, and the rest of the world just… carried on without her. I cut my engine and sit there for a second longer than necessary, fingers still on the wheel. The estate lights cast long shadows across the driveway, and her taillights glow red, accusing. Elena. Of all the places she could’ve gone tonight. What does she want. I exhale slowly through my nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I step out of the car, the door shutting behind me with a decisive thud. The sound echoes more than usual, like the house itself is listening, watching, waiting to see which version of me walks towards her. Damian the strategist, Damian, the father, or Damian, the man who still knows exactly how she smells when she’s been crying. I already know the answer. As I walk closer, I catch sight of her in the driver’s seat. Her shoulders are hunched. Too small, and too fra

  • THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS    EIGHTY-ONE

    ELENA The first thing I do when I get home is shout, “I’m taking a shower!” like I’m announcing a victory. I don’t even wait for a response. I kick off my shoes in the hallway, already humming a soft at first, then louder, the melody Arthur and I were working on earlier. It’s stuck in my bones, in that place between my ribs and my throat, where joy settles when it doesn’t ask permission. The bathroom fills with steam, and as the hot water hits my shoulders, I close my eyes and let the music replay in my head. The way our bows moved together. The way he corrected me without condescension. The way he listened. I smile to myself, shampooing my hair, thinking ridiculously, that if I’d had a mentor like him when I was younger, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so many years shrinking myself to survive other people. By the time I’m dressed and walking towards the dining room, I feel light. Happy; almost… normal. That should’ve been my warning. Dinner is already set. The table looks perfect;

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