Semua Bab The Unwanted Wife: Bab 171 - Bab 180

And just when I thought the moment couldn’t be any more surprising—a voice cut through the air.“I have something to say.”The ballroom froze.Not just stilled. Froze. The air went taut — like everyone had stopped breathing all at once. Heads turned toward the voice. And there, striding through the center aisle was Phoenix.She wasn’t escorted. She wasn’t introduced. She didn’t need either. Because the name Saavedra didn’t enter a room — it announced itself. One of the most powerful bloodlines. Whispers always followed them — old money, old power, old secrets — but none of it ever diminished their force. The Saavedras were the kind of family people bowed to without needing to be told why.Phoenix walked straight to the stage, her boots clacking against the polished marble— unapologetically loud. Her long, wild waves of hair spilled over her shoulders. Her black dress shimmered in the lights, short, sleek, sharp like a blade. Eyes lined dark. Lips blood red. Every inch of her screamed:

3 months after Regan’s birthday party….Regan’s POVThe room reeked of liquor. Half-empty bottles littered the table, some toppled over, their contents bleeding into coasters that hadn’t been touched in weeks. A faint hum from the air conditioner filled the silence, but it couldn't drown out the ringing in my head—or the fucking emptiness of this house.No maids. No noise. No warmth. Just me. And this suffocating silence. The bedroom looked exactly how we left it.The curtains were still shut—hadn’t been pulled back in months. The sunlight had stopped trying to come in, like even it gave up on me. The only light came from the blinking red dot of the AC unit and the faint glow from a cracked lamp in the corner I hadn’t bothered to fix. It still smelled faintly like her. Vanilla and jasmine… buried underneath the overwhelming stench of liquor and stale air.Our bed was unmade. Her side untouched. I couldn’t bring myself to lie on it.Instead, I stayed curled on the velvet couch at the f

I leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling blankly as I reached for the bottle again. My hand trembled slightly. The glass clinked softly against my teeth as I drank, not even bothering to taste it anymore. Just burning my throat. Then the blur took over.I don’t remember when I fell asleep—only that it was still afternoon and I woke up hours later with a stiff neck, a pounding headache, and the bottle still half-full in my lap. My hand reached for my phone without thinking. Muscle memory. A habit I hadn’t shaken, even when I knew it never brought what I wanted. I unlocked it and opened the voicemail inbox.There were several. I hit play. First was Ella’s voice—anxious, rapid, trying not to sound panicked.“Regan… hey. I—I don’t mean to bother you, but the funding pulled out this morning. We can’t meet the supplier requirements. I was hoping… if there’s anything you can do... just call me back, okay?”I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Next were messages from old friends. One after the other.“Bro, I

Author’s Note:First, thank you so much for reading and loving the first book of Anastasia Del Valle. Writing this story was a rollercoaster of emotions — and I’m incredibly grateful you came along for the ride.Some of you might feel frustrated or even hate Anastasia and Regan or the characters. But in writing this story, I wanted to show how complicated people can be, how uncertain we are when faced with pain, love, and choices. I want my characters to grow.Regan Del Valle loved one woman from the start. Anastasia’s arrival in his life was unexpected, and he never imagined he could fall in love with her. But when he saw his first love again, his mind was programmed to believe he still loved her. It became a battle between his heart and his mind. His journey is about the painful consequences of denial — of realizing too late, of being a coward when it mattered most.Anastasia Montreal was someone who gave her whole heart to one man — her husband. She believed that love meant staying

Steam curled gently in the bathroom air as I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy white towel around myself. The mirror was fogged over, which was fine — I didn’t really need to look at myself too long this morning. I already knew what I’d see.Short dark brown hair freshly trimmed just last week. It barely grazed my shoulders now, no longer the long waves I used to have. It framed my face more sharply — stronger jaw, clearer cheekbones. A little grown-up, a little tougher. Maybe even freer. Ava said it made me look cool. I said it made me look like a tired mom. Both were true.When I wiped a stripe across the glass, my eyes stared back at me — that same deep green, sharp even on my softest days. Sometimes I thought they were the best and worst part of me. Honest, even when I didn’t want them to be.I padded into my walk-in closet, towel still wrapped around me, pulling open the drawers with muscle memory. I didn’t want anything too formal — just e