Lahat ng Kabanata ng Divorced My CEO Husband, He Came Begging: Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 110

I hurled the notebook across the room, my carefully maintained composure cracking. The soccer mom—Tracy? Stacy?—jumped in her bed, eyes wide with alarm."Sorry," I muttered. "Bad memory."She nodded with the instant forgiveness of the perpetually frightened and turned back to her recovery romance novel.I closed my eyes, but the memories kept coming. The day my parents brought Maya "home." The press conference, the tearful reunion carefully staged for maximum emotional impact. Me, standing to the side, watching Caroline Kingston touch Maya's face with a reverence she'd never shown me."Look at you," she'd whispered. "You have your grandmother's eyes. We thought we'd never see them again."I'd given interviews, playing the ecstatic sister. I'd shared my room, my clothes, my parents. I'd shown her the family business, introduced her to industry contacts I'd cultivated for years. All while watching Caroline and Robert orbit around her like she was the sun and I was just some distant, dis

A week passed in self-imposed isolation. I'd barely left the cabin since returning from town, the memory of that black SUV creeping through Spring Creek still nagging at me. Could have been anyone—some rich tourist looking for a quaint mountain café, some lost city driver checking addresses. But instinct told me otherwise. Daniel had resources, connections. Just because he hadn't found me yet didn't mean he wasn't looking.I'd turned the place into a glass workshop that would've given safety inspectors a heart attack. Beads piled on every flat surface, tools scattered wherever I'd last dropped them. My latest obsession was taking photos of everything I made—setting pieces against the east window where the light hit best, snapping them from every angle. If someone tried to steal my work again, I'd have dates, images, proof it was mine first. Paranoid? Maybe. But paranoid people sometimes have real enemies.I'd been saving the best shots as Instagram drafts, ready to post when I finally

The next morning, I woke up with this weird feeling. Not dread exactly. Not courage either. Something else. My throat was dry as hell, and I had to pee so bad my eyes were watering, but I just lay there, staring at the ceiling.Fuck running. Fuck hiding. That's all I kept thinking. I'd spent my whole damn life doing both—with Mami Lulu in these mountains, in my joke of a marriage to Daniel, from everything I'd learned about my past. Just... done. Completely fucking done.I made coffee, burnt the shit out of my tongue on the first sip—always too impatient—and carried it to the porch. The sun was just breaking over the trees, turning the morning mist this weird golden color that reminded me of the glass pieces Mami Lulu used to make when she'd had an extra glass of wine with dinner. "Happy accidents," she'd called them.The SUV from last night had turned out to be nothing more sinister than the local vet making a house call to a neighbor I didn't even know I had. False alarm. But the adr

AlexI watched the taillights of the police cruiser disappear around the bend, taking Daniel with it. My hands wouldn't stop fucking shaking. Knuckles raw, blood dried in the creases. The cotton of my shirt clung to my back, cold sweat making me shiver despite the warm evening.That moment kept replaying—Daniel holding Maya at the cliff edge, rocks crumbling beneath her feet, her eyes wide with terror. One second later and she would've been gone. Just gone.My stomach heaved suddenly. I lurched toward the bushes and threw up, acid burning my throat. Hadn't eaten since breakfast. Nothing but bile to give.When the spasms stopped, I straightened, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of copper—cut my lip somewhere in the struggle with Daniel. Hadn't even noticed.I spat, then reached for my phone, leaning against my car's hood. The metal had gone cold. How long had I been standing here? The sunset had faded to dusk, shadows stretching across the clearing.I dialed my securi

DanielBlood on my hands. Not a metaphor. Actual fucking blood.I stared at the red-brown stains embedded in my cuticles, tracing the lines in my palms. Whose blood? Mine? Hers? Or that son of a bitch who tackled me? Didn't matter. The concrete cell walls kept shifting if I looked at them too long, so I focused on my hands instead."This isn't happening," I whispered. My voice sounded wrong in the empty cell. Too small. Too tight. I was Daniel Russo. I didn't belong in places like this.Four concrete walls. A metal toilet with no seat. A slab they called a bed. Bright lights that never went off. The holding cell at the county sheriff's station wasn't meant for people like me. For Russo men.The blood under my nails bothered me. I rubbed my thumb over my fingertips, trying to dislodge the dried flakes. When had I last scrubbed under my nails? Yesterday. Before driving up to the mountains. Before finding her cabin. Before..."She pushed me to this," I muttered, digging harder at the blo