All Chapters of The Unwanted Wife: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Morgan stood there for a moment, the basket of fruit still tucked neatly under one arm. He shifted slightly, clearing his throat before setting the basket down carefully on a side table."I didn’t expect you today, Atty. Morgan," I said, gesturing lightly toward the basket. "Is that... for me?"He gave a small, almost bashful smile, his gaze softening as he glanced at it."Yes," he said simply. “My wife used to eat these. A lot. When she was pregnant."I blinked at him, a little caught off guard. Of all the things I thought he might bring today, a basket of fruits wasn't one of them."She said they helped with... everything. Nausea, heartburn, even bad days. She swore by them. So, I thought — maybe... you’d like some too.""Thank you,"I cleared it quickly, forcing myself to sit down at my desk, placing my hands on the smooth wood like. Morgan sat down across from me, adjusting his jacket, his movements precise but hesitant."So," I said after a breath, offering a lighter smile I did

I leaned back, taking a long sip before answering, “And?”Richard’s jaw clenched. His fists curled slightly at his sides. “I’m asking you—no, I’m telling you—to reconsider.”I shakes my hand, “No, I made my mind—”“You care to explain why?” my father demanded, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.I exhaled slowly. “Because it’s time.”“Time?” His voice sharpened with disbelief. “What the fuck are you saying? Is there a scheduled deadline for a divorce now? You married her, Regan.”“I did,” I said flatly. “I fucking did”“You made vows—”“And I broke them,” I snapped, the words harsher than I meant. “What do you want me to say, Dad? That I’m a villain? That I’m a selfish bastard who threw away a good woman for reasons I can’t even explain?”Silence followed.He stared at me — hard. Disgust and disappointment twisted in the crease of his brow. “I want you to tell me the truth, Regan, why ar

Zarina’s POVI stared at myself in the mirror, biting back the lump in my throat.God, I looked tired.My makeup was still intact, but my eyes—those gave me away. There was something desperate in them now, something I hated admitting even to myself. The silk robe I wore clung to my skin, soft and dangerous, slipping just enough off my shoulder to make it look like an accident. I adjusted it slightly, not too much. Let him notice.He had to notice.I walked out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent against the floor as I made my way to his office. The door was ajar. Typical. He hated being disturbed, but never locked anything. I leaned on the doorframe, watching him for a moment.“What are you doing?”No response.Figures.Regan’s office looked exactly like him—organized, cold. The walls were this muted gray-blue, shelves lined with leather-bound books, and a single art piece on the far wall—a black and white photograph of some mountain range he said he liked. His desk was the only thing

I clenched the edges of my robe tighter, like holding it together could somehow keep me from falling apart.Regan and I met two years ago. But for a year—he ignored me. Acted like I was just a stranger. It wasn’t until one drunken night that it started again. And I let the world believe we had been rekindled ever since. I needed them to believe this was a long game. Because if they knew the truth… I’d have nothing.All of a sudden, the last time I saw Anastasia in their mansion flashed in my mind. In their bedroom. She stood in the doorway—silent, pale, eyes wide with betrayal. She saw me there, naked under the sheets with Regan. It was the kind of scene anyone would misread. Hell, I wanted her to misread it.But the worst part? Nothing even happened. Not that day. Not that night. Not ever since. After she left, Regan didn’t say a word to me. Didn’t explain. Didn’t argue. He just… got dressed, walked out, and disappeared for nearly a week. No calls. No texts. Not even to check if I wa

Sheila's POVAva’s voice lifted with grace and pride. "And now, let us take a moment to recognize one of the pillars of tonight’s celebration — a family known for their quiet strength, timeless grace, and unwavering values. The heart of the Montreal legacy — please welcome the Montreal family."The applause picked up immediately, warm and enthusiastic. I turned, watching as the arched gate opened at the back of the room. And just like that, they stepped into view — not just as guests, but as something greater.Don Alonso came first.He moved with slow but steady steps, his silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers. He wore a classic gray suit, perfectly pressed, with a carved wooden cane in one hand. His face, though lined with age, carried authority. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t need to. His presence alone demanded respect.Beside him walked Gregory, Anastasia’s father, looking solemn in a black three-piece suit. His expression was unreadable — calm, yes, but distant. Like he wasn