บททั้งหมดของ Never Forgive You, My Ex-Husband: บทที่ 101 - บทที่ 110

HANNAHThe podium gleamed like a stage prop. Rows of cameras pointed at us, lenses unblinking, hungry. Reporters murmured across the crowded hotel ballroom, their badges flashing as they leaned forward, pens poised. The Mancini crest stood tall on the backdrop behind us, polished gold on deep blue. A kingdom pretending it wasn’t already cracking.And Nico—my husband, my captor, my obsession—looked like a king about to crown himself.He adjusted his tie, gave me a smile that belonged on a wedding announcement, and gripped the microphone. His voice came out smooth at first, trained, the voice investors used to trust.“Thank you all for coming. Today isn’t about numbers, contracts, or speculation. Today is about family. About loyalty.”I folded my hands on the table beside him, smile soft, eyes lowered just enough to look deferential. Let him have his theater. Let him dig the hole himself.**********************************Nico’s speech built like thunder. He praised our “renewed bond,”

HANNAHI hit send at 2:13 a.m.The flash drive had been burning a hole in my vanity drawer for days. Veronica’s little gift, David’s urging, my own rage disguised as patience. I told myself I’d wait until the vow renewal aftermath settled, until the press conference smoke cleared, until Nico relaxed just enough to think he still owned the board. But tonight, staring into the mirror at a face I barely recognized—painted wife, hollow eyes—I stopped waiting.The encrypted account blinked green when the files uploaded. Offshore accounts. Bribes labeled as “consulting.” Medical reports doctored until they bled lies. And tucked between them, proof that what was done to my body wasn’t healing at all. It was control.I didn’t need my name on the leak. Anonymous was enough. Anonymous had teeth.By 7 a.m., the world was chewing.**********************************The first call came before breakfast—Veronica, voice clipped. “The board is convening early. Don’t leave the house.” Translation: don’

VERONICAThe Mancini name has always been a currency. Tonight, it feels like counterfeit.I sit at the vanity in my private suite, pearls still draped along my collarbone from the dinner I had endured with Nico—if one can call his tirade about “traitors” and “sabotage” a dinner. He had shouted at shadows, overturned a wine glass, and stormed out, leaving me with a stain on silk damask and a house staff too terrified to breathe.The headlines run in a cruel ticker at the bottom of the television: MANCINI PRESSURE MOUNTS—ALLIES DISTANCE THEMSELVES VIDEO OF OUTBURST GOES VIRAL HAS NICO LOST HIS GRIP?They don’t ask the question. They answer it.Nico is finished.The tragedy is that he does not yet know it. He still believes Hannah’s presence is proof of loyalty, not strategy. He clings to her like a drowning man to driftwood, never realizing she is salt water herself—ready to swallow him when the tide turns.I can live with the Mancini empire burning. But I cannot allow myself to burn

SYDNEYThe thing about this house is it teaches you where you stand without ever saying a word.For weeks, I’ve been standing in shadows, watching Veronica tilt her head toward Hannah instead of me, listening to the way her voice changes—less scolding, more curious. Like Hannah’s a specimen worth preserving, while I’m just noise.I see it in the little things: how Veronica’s pearls click softer when she’s with Hannah, how she asks Alvarez to bring Hannah tea in the afternoons, how she never tells her to leave the room.Me? I get dismissed with one flick of her hand, like a servant who overstayed her usefulness.And Nico—God, Nico doesn’t even see me anymore. He’s too busy dragging Hannah down the hall like she’s his prize, whispering plans about vow renewals and children that aren’t even real.I told myself for months that if I stayed, I’d matter. That he’d see me, need me, reward me. But Hannah comes back from the ashes and suddenly I’m invisible again.*******************************

DAVIDI’d seen soldiers spiral before. Clients, too—the kind who paid obscene amounts of money to buy back their sense of safety after the world carved it out of them. There were tells. The restless hands. The thousand-yard stare. The silence that wasn’t peace but pressure building under a lid.Hannah had all of them now.She sat at the edge of the safehouse couch, shoulders hunched, clutch clamped in her lap like it was a lifeline. I knew what was inside. Papers. The kind of evidence that scorches when you touch it. Her knuckles were white around the leather, eyes fixed on nothing, lips moving like she was arguing with ghosts.I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to show how much it gutted me to watch her like this.“You haven’t moved in two hours,” I said.She didn’t flinch. Just blinked once and said, “Thinking.”“Thinking doesn’t look like that.”Her mouth twisted, humorless. “And what does it look like, David?”“Not like you’re drowning on dry land.”That got her