Lahat ng Kabanata ng Twice His Wife: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

The rain hadn’t let up in days. It wasn’t the kind that passed quickly;washing dust from rooftops and leaving behind blue skies. No, this was the quiet, stubborn sort. The kind that sat heavy on the ground and turned air into mist. The kind that soaked through shoes, clothes, even skin. The kind Anais Vale had learned to live with. She stood in the kitchen of the cottage she’d rented two years ago-barefoot, arms crossed, sweater draped like a second skin. Outside, the storm whispered against the windows. Inside, the silence pressed close, like a secret waiting to be told. The kettle hissed softly. She poured the water into a chipped mug and dropped in a teabag. Her hand lingered on the string, fingers trembling just enough to make the paper tag dance. She wasn’t looking at the tea. She was looking at the envelope. It lay untouched on the table. Thick, cream-colored parchment. Sealed with red wax, like something out of another century. No name. No return address. Just two words, c

Anais didn’t sleep. The box lay open on the floor like a wound she couldn’t close. The report was still in her lap. Her fingers clutched the edge like if she let go, the truth would vanish. She had been pregnant. She had lost it. She had never known. And somehow, he had. Cassian Vale—her legally bound stranger of a husband—had known something she didn’t even know about herself. And he said nothing. Not when she left. Not now. Not ever. She wanted to tear the paper in half. Burn it. Deny it. But it was real. Cold. Clinical. There were no footprints on a sonogram. No heartbeat to remember. Just a printed line on cheap hospital paper filed beneath letters she’d never meant to leave behind. She sat there on the carpet until the room blurred and the morning light pressed its fingers through the blinds. And still, she didn’t cry. By the time Cassian returned, Anais was standing in the kitchen. She didn’t say good morning. He didn’t ask why she hadn’t slept. They moved around e

The boardroom was colder than usual. Anais sat at the far end of the long glass table, her fingers wrapped around a mug of untouched tea. The morning sun sliced through the skyscraper windows, but the warmth didn’t reach her. It never did here. Across the table, Irene was speaking in measured tones—something about asset repositioning and post-acquisition branding. Anais caught maybe half of it. The rest of her mind was still stuck on last night—Cassian's voice low and raw in the office, on the way he looked at her like he’d seen something he didn’t want to name. She had stayed up reworking the entire presentation after he left. The safe version was gone. She’d taken his challenge seriously. The new direction was bolder—sharper. It made her stomach churn, but she wasn’t here to be comfortable. She was here to be seen. “Mrs. Vale?” The voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Anais blinked and realized the entire table was watching her. Irene was frowning. “Would you like to walk us

By the time the sun pushed through the floor-length windows, Anais was already awake. Not from sleep. She hadn’t closed her eyes all night. The interview had aired. She could feel it in the silence. No messages from Cassian. No breakfast. Not even the routine morning check-in from Irene. Instead, her phone lit up with hundreds of tags, pings, and news alerts. Screenshots. Headlines. Threads filled with dissected phrases she barely remembered saying. “I left because I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.” “A woman erased in her own marriage.” Some called her brave. Others called her manipulative. But one message stood out. No name. No number. Just one sentence. There’s a reason the drawer is locked. She stared at it for a long time, her thumb hovering over the screen. The drawer. She knew exactly which one. Cassian’s home office was a cold, sterile space. Too perfect. Like no one had ever really worked in it—just designed it for show. But the mahogany filing cabinet nea

Anais didn’t sleep. That had become the pattern lately—nights spent tracing the outlines of truths she hadn’t asked for, and mornings spent swallowing the ache of pretending she didn’t care. The message haunted her. Ask him about Southbridge. 2019. She had. He didn’t answer. That was an answer in itself. By morning, the house felt smaller. Colder. Like the walls knew something too. Cassian had left again—early, like always. She hadn’t heard the door. Just woke to find the bed untouched on his side and a mug with a full cup of untouched coffee on the kitchen counter. Black. Still hot. He’d made it. Then walked out. Anais didn’t bother dressing up when she left. No makeup. No heels. Just jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap pulled low to cover up her chestnut brown hair which was put in a messy bun. She took one of the company cars, gave no explanation to the driver, and sat silent in the back until the city swallowed her whole. She was going to Southbridge. Not because she knew w