Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 81 - Chapitre 90

~~Julie~~It’s the afternoon of the trial, and I don’t know why I’m nervous.This is what I’ve wanted for weeks now, to be out of this cage. Hell, I’ve dreamed about it. To be free. To leave Ryan and his web of lies and manipulation behind. To go wherever I want, with whomever I want, without looking over my shoulder. But as I get closer, my heart pounds harder. I feel like the god of fucking-shit-up is probably lurking around the corner, sharpening his claws, waiting to pounce. My mission today is simple: don’t let that happen.That’s why I’m putting on my best ‘confident’ outfit. A tailored black suit. My makeup is flawless, my lips painted in the same defiant red as the blouse underneath the suit. My hair is pulled into a sleek bun, tight enough to make my scalp scream but exactly the kind of control I need right now. I look like I’m going to war.And I am.I take a deep breath, but it does little to calm the storm brewing inside me. I adjust my collar, smoothing it down. Confidenc

I sit frozen in my seat as the courtroom buzzes around me. Maya leans in close. “You okay?”I nod, though my throat feels tight. “I should be.”“It’s not over. Stay sharp.”I swallow hard. I’ve seen Ryan break down before—his temper, his desperation—but this was different. He didn’t just concede; he imploded. And that scares me more than any fight he could’ve put up.Some minutes later, the bailiff’s voice sounds. “All rise.”Judge Harper returns, her robe flowing like a storm cloud. She takes her seat.“Be seated,” she says.Everyone shuffles back into place.Judge Harper clears her throat. “Before we continue, I want to make one thing clear: this court will not tolerate any further emotional outbursts. Mr. O’Brien, you are expected to maintain your composure.” Her gaze pierces him. “Do I make myself clear?”Ryan nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”Maya adjusts her blazer and stands. “Your Honor, given Mr. O’Brien’s sudden decision to no longer contest the divorce, we believe it is in the best

Everything about tonight has been wonderful. Luke's friends—Sebastian, Asher, and Kofi—have mostly been nice. Kofi’s the loudest and more free-spirited one. Sebastian’s the father of the group, while Asher's like the middle child. I can see why they're friends with Luke. Other than the fact that they went to the same college, they are mostly alike. Sharing inside jokes. Completing each other's sentences. And asking me the same questions a million times.“Are you sure you don't want alcohol, Julie?” Asher says. “Seems really weird that we're all taking shots and you're on your fourth glass of that thing.” He points at my glass.It's a virgin mojito.“No, thank you, Asher,” I say. “I still have a long night ahead. Need to stay sharp.”They all take my meaning and laugh, except Luke who's stealing suspicious glances at me. Oh, god. Don't let him figure it out before I tell him.By the time we're ready to leave, I’ve downed six glasses of the virgin mojito and have visited the restroom tw

It’s been a week since I told Luke the news, and true to his word, I’ve been imprisoned in his house—well, partial imprisonment. He drives me to work every morning and picks me up every evening. On the day of my dating scan, I’d had to steal his keys while he was in the shower. That was the closest I’ve gotten to freedom. I feel like my limbs are becoming useless outside of work, and it's making me crazy. It's Saturday, and I’m still lazing about in bed. “Julie,” Luke calls, “are you awake?” He knows I’m awake, but he also knows that he'd need a crowbar to separate me from this bed before 6 a.m. “Go away,” I say, covering my head with a pillow. The pillow over my head muffles Luke’s voice, but I still hear every smug syllable. “Come on, Kitten. We have a busy day today.” I freeze. The pillow slides off just enough to uncover one eye. “Did you just call me Kitten?” “Did I?” He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “I think you did.” “Great. It got you awake, didn't i

~~Ryan O’Brien~~ Ryan’s palms are sweaty, and his throat feels tight as he scans the room. The walls are a soft, muted green, the kind of calming color that’s supposed to make you feel relaxed, but all it does is make him itch. There’s a framed print of a serene forest landscape on the wall opposite him and a smaller, abstract painting that looks like a five-year-old’s tantrum on canvas. He tells himself he’s focusing on the art because he finds it adorable in a ridiculous way, but he knows the truth. He’s avoiding the therapist’s face. Because he shouldn’t be here. This is a waste of time, he thinks, shifting in his seat. His fingers tap an erratic rhythm on his knee, a habit he picked up since everything went to hell. Why does he need to talk to a shrink? His mother insisted, though. Said he was spiraling. Said he wasn’t himself anymore. So, here he is. “Ryan.” The voice is calm, measured. He finally glances at the man sitting across from him. Dr. Matthew Grant, mid-forties, cl