Revenge Becomes Her のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 171 - チャプター 180

In an abandoned racetrack...Unknown location…The sky above is a slate of black, blank, and uncaring.The headlights of the black sedan flicker, casting strobe-like shadows across the fractured concrete. Every crack and blood trail is illuminated in sharp contrast.The car engine ticks faintly, heat escaping slowly. It sounds almost like breathing—shallow, dying.The once-grand racetrack is silent now.Except for the wind.And the soft, wet sound of blood soaking into old pavement.Silas Hawke’s body lies crumpled behind the car, chained like an afterthought. His form is twisted unnaturally, his skin a canvas of asphalt burns, bruises, and punishment. Every inch of him screams pain, even in stillness.But he’s still alive.Barely.His eyes flutter open for seconds at a time, unfocused and bloodshot. His lips part, but no sound comes. His vocal cords are raw, stripped by days of screaming that no one answered.This is no longer punishment.This is a ritual.This is legacy.A soft click

The dining room is modest, glowing softly in golden lamplight. The smell of pumpkin soup, herbs, and freshly baked bread wafts in from the kitchen, enveloping the room in warmth that doesn’t just touch the skin but the soul.Fallon sits at the table, hands folded in her lap, eyes roaming across the framed family photos that line the shelf near the fireplace—snapshots of birthdays, vacations, mismatched smiles. None of them is grand. But all of them are real.She exhales deeply, quietly. “If only I were cherished and loved the way I loved Ethan. We could’ve had this.”She closes her eyes for a moment, grounding herself. Then—PAT. PAT. PAT.Small footsteps.Fallon opens her eyes.A little boy, maybe five or six, stands just outside the doorway—barefoot, in dinosaur pajamas, with sleepy curls and a shy stare.Fallon freezes.Her breath catches.“Sean…” she calls softly. The name leaves her lips like a prayer—unthinking, instinctive.The little boy blinks at her.“Are you okay?” he asks

~RING~~RING~~RING~The landline’s shrill voice pierces through the marble-clad silence of the Kingsley residence.On the table beside him, Nathan’s phone buzzes relentlessly—a string of missed calls and unanswered messages lighting up the screen.ETHICS COMMITTEE – UNKNOWN CALLER – PRIVATE NUMBERHe sits in the center of the expansive living room, surrounded by art that no longer impresses him and furniture that feels colder than it ever used to. His silk shirt is wrinkled. His hair, unkempt. The ice in his glass has melted, the whiskey watered down—but he drinks it anyway.The ringing continues. He doesn’t reach for it.He doesn’t need to.He knows exactly who it is.Not mother. Not Fallon.Not some board member demanding deliverables.No.This is the sound of decay calling.The anonymous tip. The sealed rehab record. The truth wrapped in malice.His grip tightens around the glass.“That dumb bitch…”He mutters it quietly, like it’s not meant for anyone else.But the venom lacing h

The restaurant was quiet—too quiet. A small, private bistro hidden in the heart of the city, bathed in soft golden light and the scent of rosemary and wine. The kind of place meant for promises, not goodbyes.Ethan had arrived early. His shirt was freshly pressed, hair tamed, eyes rimmed with quiet desperation. He fiddled with the edge of the menu, checking the entrance every thirty seconds like a man waiting for salvation.Then she walked in.Fallon.Dressed in a simple black dress, hair pinned loosely, grace in every step, and sorrow tucked carefully behind her eyes. Ethan stood up too quickly, knocking his glass slightly. She noticed—but said nothing."You're here," he said softly, almost in disbelief.She offered a faint smile. “I said I would be.”They sat.For a moment, the clinking of cutlery from nearby tables filled the silence between them. Waiters moved in the background, but the world felt narrowed—just the two of them at a single, flickering candle.“I ordered your favorit

Two years had passed.Fallon Showls lived a quiet, fulfilling life.She kept her lines open to her closest friends. Eliot and Harlene remained a steady presence, even from afar. Their children sent her drawings in the mail, and now, they were expecting their third child. Fallon laughed when Harlene joked that she was becoming a full-time chaos manager.Fallon’s heart swelled with joy for them.Despite keeping her distance from Ethan, Fallon never cut ties with his family. Every few months, she sent hand-written cards and small handmade gifts to Madam Farwell—a knitted scarf in the winter, a lavender sachet in the spring, a book of poetry with a pressed flower between its pages.The old madam always replied, her handwriting shaky but heartfelt, letting Fallon know how deeply she cherished the gestures.The Kingsleys had returned to Australia. Occasionally, Madam Kingsley or Nathan would call—not to drag Fallon back, but simply to ask how she was doing. Like a loving mother to her estran