Semua Bab Your Husband's Real Wife: Bab 31 - Bab 40

“I just need you to hear me out,” Gabriel said, his voice tight with desperation as he stood in the middle of their living room—the same room where promises had once felt real.Andrea didn’t look up from the suitcase spread open on the bed. Her movements were calm, deliberate. Clothes folded methodically, placed with care. Not rushed. Not chaotic. Controlled—like her breathing.“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he continued, stepping closer. “Not right away. But you have to know… Celina means nothing now.”Now.The word echoed like a slap.Andrea paused, her hand resting on a blouse—ivory silk, delicate, the one she wore on their fifth anniversary. They had danced in that blouse. Laughed. Kissed.The irony burned through her chest.She lifted the blouse slowly, then folded it in half with precision. No emotion on her face, but her silence screamed.“You keep saying she means nothing,” she said at last, her tone low and icy. “But I meant everything—and you threw that away.”She zipp

“Can we add more light to the center display? The shadows are swallowing the texture.”Andrea’s voice carried through the small gallery hall—clear, composed, with just enough authority to send her assistant moving without question. She stood directly in front of the tall canvas, arms crossed, assessing every detail with the critical eye of someone who knew what a story should feel like, not just look like.Her hair was pinned up in a loose twist, secured with a paint-streaked pencil she hadn’t even realized she was still carrying. Her blouse was crisp, her posture relaxed but focused. She didn’t just stand there—she belonged there.The canvas in front of her, though not her own, was a piece she had selected with intention. Its coarse textures and unpredictable palette whispered something real—something raw.Andrea stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly. “There. Right there. The emotion’s in the brushwork. Let’s not let it disappear.”“Yes, ma’am. I’ll adjust the dimmers,” the assist

“Sir. Gabriel.”He looked up from his desk—eyes bloodshot, collar slightly wrinkled. His assistant, usually brisk but respectful, stood at the doorway with a tight expression.“What is it?”“There’s… another journalist at the lobby asking about the ‘double marriage’ rumor. PR has been fielding calls since this morning.”Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “Tell them no comment.”“I have. But it’s not going away.” She hesitated. “Sir, the board wants to meet. Today. At five.”He stared at her. “The board?”She nodded. “All of them.”When she left, the silence rang louder than any scandal.Gabriel sat back in his leather chair, eyes drifting toward the window of his high-rise office. The skyline stretched before him like it always had—pristine, powerful, detached. But today, it felt like a glass case cracking from the inside.His phone buzzed again, vibrating insistently against the glass coffee table. Another missed call—this one from a long-time client. Then another followed, flashing the name of

“Sign here.”Andrea’s voice was soft. It's controlled. Her fingers slid the thick envelope across the marble kitchen counter.Gabriel blinked at it like it was radioactive.“What… what is this?”“You already know.”His throat worked to swallow the lump forming. “Andrea, come on. We can talk about this. Come home with me."“We’ve talked, Gabriel,” she said, not raising her voice. Not even a hint of anger, it's just a terrible, echoing calm. “You just never listened.”Gabriel remained frozen, staring at the topmost page: Petition for the Dissolution of Marriage.“No, no—wait.” He pushed it back toward her. “This… you don’t mean this. You’re just angry. Hurt. You found something, didn’t you? You misunderstood.”Andrea gave a tired laugh. “You think this is about one thing?!” She stepped back, arms folded across her chest. “You’ve been feeding me silence for months. Half-smiles. Excuses. Lies dressed up as business trips.”Gabriel opened his mouth, but Andrea cut him off.“Do you know whe

The mail sat untouched on Andrea's hallway console, half-hidden under a grocery flyer and a bank statement she hadn’t bothered to open. She walked past it three times that day, once with her coffee, once on the way to her desk, and again with her folded laundry in hand. Each time, her eyes flicked over the envelope bearing her name, but her hand never reached for it. Cream paper. No return address. Just her name written in the familiar slant of someone she used to know better than anyone.Andrea Reyes.Her name stared back at her from the envelope, handwritten in bold, unfamiliar script. No return address. No explanation.It sat on the edge of the counter, too heavy for something so small. She hadn’t opened it. Not yet.And she wouldn’t—not today.The envelope would stay there for days, untouched. Moved only when she wiped the table or shifted groceries around it. Like a ghost in plain sight.Because she already knew.The night it was written, something in her chest had clenched—tigh