Unworthy No More のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

Isla Hart’s POVLia practically vibrated with energy as she leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand clutching her coffee, the other tapping her thigh. “Are you ready, Isla?” she asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Because today… oh, today I get to remind the Blakes that the world has a funny way of evening the score.”I arched an eyebrow at her, trying to suppress a laugh. “Lia, remember, we’re going to visit the babies. No drama. No...” “No drama?” she interrupted, her voice sweet and deadly. “Girl, the only drama here is how much they’re about to regret thinking they could ever control or belittle you.”I sighed, letting her excitement roll over me like a tide I could not stop. Despite my misgivings, I had to admit that part of me, deep down, was curious. I had survived Nathaniel and his family’s scorn. I had endured their disdain, their cold and calculated judgment when I gave birth to a girl instead of a boy. And now… here I was. Thriving. Happy. Independent. Protected. And

Author's POV The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lilies, gifts from well-meaning acquaintances who had no idea that every petal reminded Viola of disappointment. She sat propped against the pillows, her silk nightgown stretched unflatteringly across her swollen body, her twin daughters resting in the bassinets beside her. Two perfect little girls, fragile, soft and utterly innocent. Yet the sight of them filled her not with triumph, but with a gnawing bitterness she could not ignore.Nathaniel had barely looked at her since their birth. His dark eyes, once filled with desire and indulgence, now seemed restless, almost vacant. Mrs. Blake, who had welcomed her with open arms when she displaced Isla, had worn a smile as brittle as glass upon seeing the girls. Viola still remembered the sharp intake of breath, the way hope had drained from the woman’s eyes. Two granddaughters instead of grandsons. Two more “useless girls.” And just like that, Viola’s throne as the favored

Isla’s POVThe night air still clung to me as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling long after Alexander’s words had faded into silence. His voice had been steady, almost too steady, as though every syllable had been carved from stone. Wars do not always start with gunfire, Isla. Sometimes they start with a look.I rolled onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me. A war. Alexander spoke of Nathaniel and his family as though they were battle-hardened generals plotting campaigns in hidden rooms. I could not see it. Spiteful, yes. Petty, undoubtedly. But murderous? That was giving them too much credit.Nathaniel Blake was not a man of violence. He was a man of control. Of suffocating rules and invisible chains that tightened around your throat until you forgot what it felt like to breathe. He did not need blood on his hands...his weapon had always been manipulation. I closed my eyes, but sleep refused to come. Instead, memories trickled in unbidden.We had met at graduation, bot

IslaThe morning after my little excursion, I woke to the sound of Sophie humming off-key in the bathroom, her voice muffled as she brushed her teeth. Alexander was already gone, a note left neatly on the kitchen counter in his precise handwriting: Meeting. Breakfast is in the oven. Don’t skip it.It was the kind of gesture that should have warmed me, but instead it twisted the guilt in my chest. If he knew where I had gone yesterday, if he knew I was already searching for a place outside his walls, would he still write notes like this? Or would his patience harden into that quiet steel I had seen in his eyes when he had spoken about the Blakes?At work, the day passed in a blur of paperwork and hushed conversations. My colleagues laughed around me, their chatter filling the office, but I could not quite join in. My mind kept drifting back to the apartment, the way sunlight had painted the living room golden, the way the park across the street had filled with children’s voices. I want

Isla’s POVBy late afternoon, I had convinced myself that scrolling through glossy listings was not enough. If I was serious about reclaiming my independence, I had to see the places with my own eyes.The first apartment was tucked above a bakery. The smell of fresh bread greeted me as soon as I stepped into the stairwell. It was cozy, yes, but cramped. The kitchen was barely wider than my outstretched arms, and I could already picture Sophie knocking into the corners, tripping over the peeling linoleum.“Charming, isn’t it?” the agent chirped. I forced a polite smile. “It’s… quaint.” But as I peeked into the bedroom, just one, small and dimly lit, the word that pulsed in my chest was lonely.The second place was newer, brighter, with windows that spilled light across shiny floors. But it was also sterile, the kind of place that echoed with every step. The walls were bare, the air too cold. Even Sophie’s laughter would not soften it. “Great amenities,” the agent said, rattling off abo