All Chapters of Chasing The Stubborn Ex-Wife: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

A frantic hammering on the door jolted him from his thoughts. Sophia. He should have known she wouldn't give up that easily. He straightened, squaring his shoulders, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. “Hunter! Open this door!” Sophia’s voice, shrill and laced with desperation, pierced through the wood. “Hunter, please! You can’t do this! You can’t just throw me out!” He remained silent, his hand still gripping the doorknob, unwilling to give her any leverage. “Hunter, darling, please!” Her tone shifted, softening, dripping with a sickening sweetness that made his stomach churn. “I know you’re upset. I know Evelyn’s got her hooks back into you, but she’s manipulating you! She’s always been jealous of us, of what we have. Our connection, Hunter, it’s undeniable.” He scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. Our connection. The only connection they had was built on her lies and his own naive blindness. “Hunter, please, you know I love you!” she wailed, her voice cracking with

Hunter retreated into the desolate sanctuary of his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him with a hollow thud that echoed the emptiness within. The events of the day – Evelyn’s bitter accusations, Sophia’s unhinged manipulations, the brutal confrontation – replayed in his mind like a grotesque, never-ending film. He stripped off his clothes, the fabric feeling heavy with the day’s trauma, and stepped into the shower, letting the cold spray assault his skin, hoping it would wash away the grime of the lies that had clung to him. But the chill water did little to douse the fire raging in his thoughts. He leaned his head against the tiled wall, the spray drumming a frantic rhythm against his skull. Evelyn. Her face, etched with pain and betrayal, was a constant, haunting image. He replayed every word she’d spoken that morning at the hospital: "Our marriage was a one-sided street… I have nothing to do with you." Her bitterness, her accusations of his absence, of a marriage he had neg

The antiseptic scent of the hospital clung to Hunter like a second skin, a constant, sharp reminder of Evelyn’s precarious state and his own suffocating guilt. Days bled into nights, marked only by the shifting light outside the window and the hushed rhythm of the hospital ward. He hadn't left since she was admitted, a silent, unwavering sentinel by her bedside. Evelyn, pale and fragile against the stark white sheets, had made her feelings abundantly clear. Her eyes, whenever they flickered open to meet his, were cold, distant pools reflecting a pain he had inflicted. She spoke to him only to dismiss him, her voice weak but firm. "Go home, Hunter," she'd whispered on the second day, her words raspy from disuse. "There's nothing for you here." He’d gently adjusted the IV drip, his movements slow and deliberate, as if even the smallest gesture might startle her. "You don't have to forgive me, Evelyn," he'd murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that barely disturbed the quiet room.

The air within the grand estate was already a balm, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the hospital. Hunter had brought Evelyn here just yesterday, a move he'd painstakingly orchestrated for her safety, a quiet battle he'd fought and, surprisingly, won with Vinni's grudging assistance. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filled the air, a comforting embrace after days steeped in antiseptic. Today, an added layer of warmth settled over the house. Hunter knew the precise moment his grandmother's car swept up the long, winding driveway, even before the discreet chime of the entrance gate announced her arrival. A nervous excitement fluttered in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation. He hadn't seen his grandmother in months, and while he cherished their bond, today his anticipation was laced with a different kind of anxiety: how would Evelyn react to her? More importantly, how would his discerning grandmother react to Evelyn's still-visible injuries? He met his grandmother at

The days at his grandmother’s estate settled into a quiet, almost domestic rhythm, a stark contrast to the chaotic storm that had brought Evelyn there. Hunter maintained his silent vigil, a constant, unobtrusive presence in her periphery. He didn't hover, didn't demand attention, didn't even try to engage her in conversation unless absolutely necessary. His care was a quiet, steady current, flowing beneath the surface of her resistance. Each morning, before the sun had fully climbed above the ancient trees, Hunter would bring a tray of freshly brewed herbal tea and a light breakfast to the small table outside the wisteria room. He’d tap softly, just once, and then retreat, giving her space. He knew her routine, the faint rustle of silk sheets, the soft pad of her bare feet on the polished floor. Sometimes, she would open the door just enough to slide the tray inside, her face a blank mask. Other times, she would leave it for a few minutes, a silent acknowledgment that she knew he was