All Chapters of Divorced: Ex-wife Heiress Strikes Back: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

CLARISSA. Weeks had passed since the blast, yet the lingering stench of the blast had refused to leave. A faint, ghostly smell of burnt rubber, metal, and the smell of the heat that came with the flames. I had spent the days having myself doused in soapy hot water baths, scrubbing my skin raw and cycling through every single fragrance of perfume I owned, yet the smell still haunted me like a memory that couldn't be flushed. Devan, being extra careful and not willing to take any chances, had doubled my protection after the explosion, his elite and smart security detail tightening around me and gradually becoming a part of my daily routine. I still had a car parked a few doors away from mine, and then another at my garage, at the beginning of the street where my apartment was situated, and a tough-looking security official manning my door. I had tried to protest the irrelevance of his security measures which I saw as too much, but he had turne

CLARISSA. I turned around sharply just as I saw the shadow move to flank Devan and I, and I was shocked to my bones to discover that it had been the same man who had handled the position I now occupied all these years, the one man who had worked with the Montclair Group, and whom my father and I had trusted with the affairs of the company. I had noticed some odd movements from him in the past, and Devan had specifically asked me to be very careful around him, but never had I thought or imagined that he would be the one behind all the scenarios that had been happening all along, to the point that he was now actively after my life. “Anthonio?” I blurted out, extremely dazed as I stared in disbelief. “It’s been you all this while?” “It’s never been particularly about you, Clarissa,” he sneered, keeping his voice low. “It’s about the seat you stole.”&n

CLARISSA. I went through the content of the paper in my hands over and over again, hours after my father had left me with Devan at the hospital to attend to some urgent business. And from where I stood at the edge of Devan’s bed, the silent beeping of the monitors keeping me in reality, my mind continued to spiral as I thought of and processed the implications of what I had just read. The message had no preamble — nothing that could trigger guesses about the sender, but the words were direct and precise, and by all means addressed to me.  Anthonio was only the beginning, and that just went to show that there are still other meetings happening behind closed doors, within the very walls of the Montclair empire which you currently head. He was a pawn and was used to send you a message. You might also be interested to know that Bruce isn’t working alone — never did, and Devan actually was never t

CLARISSA. The hospital ward held the kind of silence that made grief feel louder, and as the machines beeped and hummed silently I turned to glance at Devan who I was sure was sure was still alive, but the fragility of that fact weighed heavily on every breath I took as I sat still beside his bed, my head filled with thoughts.  He looked different now, and even though the doctors continued to assure me of his slow but steady recovery, he still looked pale, reminding me of the guilt I felt for his situation. I hadn’t left the hospital in days, cancelling every one of my appointments and having every meeting, business, or board — postponed till further notice. I couldn’t bring myself to trust anyone in the company just yet, and so if business at the company had to be on hold till whenever Devan recovered, then that was a sacrifice I was very willing to make. I couldn’t risk leaving his side for a split second, unwi

CLARISSA. Every single day that followed the attack at the penthouse blurred into each other, a constant reminder of the rage, pain, and fear that panged my heart with every passing second. I had barely left Devan’s ward, the constant rise and fall of Devan’s chest while he still lay unconscious seemed to fill me with a glimmer of fragile hope. The guilt I felt had refused to go away, no matter how much the doctors had tried to assure me that he would soon regain consciousness, and no matter how hard I had tried to reassure myself that the shooting was no fault of mine, and that Devan wouldn’t be happy to know I was beating myself up that much about the whole situation. The scene of the attack automatically replayed itself in my memory like a reel each time I stared at Devan, the strong, supportive, proactive Devan lying weakly on the hospital bed and fighting for his life. The scene remained photographic in my memory, and