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TWENTY-FIVE
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2025-10-24 23:19:45
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THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS EIGHTY-SIX
DAMIANAngela doesn’t give me a chance to breathe. She drags me down the hallway like she’s been rehearsing this moment all day, her little fingers wrapped tightly around mine, determined, bossy, so much like her mother it almost hurts.“Careful,” I chuckle, pretending my heart isn’t trying to punch its way out of my chest. “You’re going to make me trip.”“No,” she says seriously, “you have long legs.”Elena follows a few steps behind us, arms crossed again, shoulders tense. She’s watching every movement like I’m a bomb she’s not sure has been defused.Angela’s room is warm, soft pastel walls, stuffed animals everywhere, and drawings taped unevenly to the wall; crayons, shaky lines, a sun with too many rays.She pulls me inside proudly. “This is my room.”I nod, slow and reverent. “It’s beautiful.”She beams. “Mommy picked it.”Of course she did.Angela hops onto the bed and immediately starts pointing at things. “That’s my bunny,but not Bun-Bun. Bun-Bun is special. He should be
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
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