All Chapters of Never Forgive You, My Ex-Husband: Chapter 91 - Chapter 96

DAVIDNico’s shove had already hit every lens in the room. Phones lifted, flashes stuttered, the gasps turned into the messy chorus of a scandal being born. Sydney, shaking in her blood-red dress, stood with a hand to her elbow, hair wild from his grip. Hannah… Hannah stood like she’d known all along this would be the moment. Too calm, too poised, a statue in emerald silk while the house burned behind her.I pressed my earpiece tighter. “Eyes on her,” I told Omar, who had the east exit. “Anyone gets too close, you intervene.”“Copy,” he said, low and sharp.Beside me, Elise didn’t look away from her screen, where half a dozen feeds stitched the chaos into a single story. “It’ll be online before midnight,” she whispered. “Clipped, captioned, memed. By morning, he’s not a husband. He’s a headline.”I should’ve smiled. God knows, I’d worked long enough in shadows to recognize when a tyrant dug his own grave. But the weight in my chest wasn’t pride. It was fear. Because Hannah wasn’t done.

HANNAHThe internet moved faster than grief. By morning, the videos were everywhere—angled shots from glittering phones, some shaky, some blurred, but all carrying the same brutal truth: Nico Mancini, the perfect husband, the careful host, had shoved Sydney across the ballroom floor in front of two hundred guests and a dozen reporters.Hashtags bloomed like bruises. #ManciniMeltdown. #VowsAndViolence. #BehindTheSmile. Clips stitched together—him shouting, me standing still, Sydney’s gasp, Veronica’s thin smile frozen in the background. Commentators on morning shows dissected every gesture like they were archeologists dusting bones.The narrative he had written for himself—devoted husband, reconciled marriage, a vow renewal built on forgiveness—was unraveling in real time. And I was still here in his house, wearing his ring, brushing my teeth in the same marble sink as if everything hadn’t shifted overnight.I scrolled in silence, back braced against the headboard, phone cold in my hand

DAVIDThe papers stank of smoke when Hannah slid them across the table to me.We were holed up in the flat above an abandoned storefront two blocks off the avenue, the one Elise had rigged as a “dead zone” for signals. No cameras, no bugs, no ears but ours. The curtains were nailed shut, the only light a desk lamp angled low. She’d wrapped the scraps in her shawl like contraband, and now they spread across the tabletop in black curls and ash-smudged fragments.I handled them with tweezers, my gloves streaked gray.Numbers. Account codes. Wire transfers through Belize and Cyprus, dates lining up with key contracts Mancini Industries had no business winning. A list of names scribbled in a hand I’d recognize anywhere. Nico’s.And one scrap that made my jaw clench until my teeth clicked: Hawthorne. The clinic. Right there in his handwriting, paired with a line item labeled “retainer.”“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “He wasn’t just a monster in his house. He’s been laundering half the city thr