Все главы Never Forgive You, My Ex-Husband: Глава 121 - Глава 130

SYDNEYThe internet smelled blood.By noon, Hannah’s perfect halo had a hairline crack in it, and I’d put it there.The first tabloid post was small — just a blind item on a gossip blog with a blurry shot of Hannah leaving the mansion, her sunglasses tilted just so. “Mysterious socialite wife seen meeting with ‘consultants’ — trouble in paradise?”It took less than an hour for a second site to run with it. By the end of the day, #ManciniMarriage was trending, and the comments were a feast: Of course she came back for revenge. The miscarriage story never added up. She’s been playing the long game since day one.I refreshed the page, grinning when I saw her face under a headline that used the word schemer in all caps.Finally.Finally, the world was seeing her the way I did — not a victim, not a phoenix, just a manipulator who happened to be prettier than most.**********************************By evening, I couldn’t sit still. I paced my room until the carpet threatened to wear thin

NICOThe world thought they could laugh at me.The headlines. The articles. The smug little commentaries about “the fall of the great Nico Mancini.”But tonight, I sat at my desk with the curtains drawn, the light from my phone cutting a glow across the mahogany, and I felt something I hadn’t in weeks — clarity.Let them talk. Let them chew on their gossip like dogs gnawing on scraps. They didn’t know me. They didn’t know her.And they were about to see.**********************************I opened the camera app, switched to live, and let the red light find me.“Good evening,” I said, my voice smooth, the kind of calm that made lawyers sweat. “I’ve heard the rumors. I’ve seen the lies. And tonight, I want to set the record straight.”Thousands joined the stream within seconds — I could see the numbers climbing. Reporters. Influencers. People who used to stand at my parties holding flutes of champagne and pretending they mattered. They were all here now, waiting.I leaned closer to the

HANNAHThe mansion gleams like it’s been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Chandeliers blaze overhead, marble floors polished until they reflect my dress back at me — the same emerald silk Nico chose, a replica of the one I wore the night we met. He thinks putting me in it will rewrite history, drag me back to a place where I still loved him.Underneath the silk, against my ribs, the mic David gave me hums like a second heartbeat. Two taps to go live, three for backup. I tap twice before stepping out of my room.The house is a theater tonight. Staff move like clockwork, faces blank, hands sure. Guests arrive in waves — businessmen in black suits, women in couture, the city’s gossip writers already whispering before they’re even handed champagne. It’s a reconciliation story too shiny to resist: the fallen wife restored, the perfect family rebuilt.I catch Alvarez’s eye as I pass. She doesn’t speak, just inclines her head the smallest fraction — a signal we agreed on. South hall clear

NICOThe walls are too loud. They whisper when I walk past, like the plaster itself has joined the chorus.“Fraud.”“Control.”“Coercion.”Words reporters love because they don’t have to live inside them.I slam my fist against the wood paneling in the study until my knuckles sing, but the whispers don’t stop. They never stop.**********************************The staff scatter when I enter a room now. Alvarez lowers her eyes. Even the gardener—who’s worked here twenty years, who once said I saved his son’s job—won’t meet my gaze.Traitors. All of them.Only Hannah smiles. She smiles like she believes, like she hasn’t already poisoned me with her performance, her “truth.” I saw the way she looked at the crowd last night, saw how the cameras adored her.She’s mine. She’s always been mine.But even mine smiles too much when I’m not watching.**********************************This morning, the board came. I should’ve told them not to, but they swarmed anyway, their suits and their nerv

HANNAHThe mansion doesn’t feel like a mansion anymore. It feels like a carcass.The chandeliers are still lit, but they buzz too loudly in the empty halls. The lilies in the foyer are wilted, their petals browning like paper left too close to a flame. Someone—probably Alvarez—still keeps the marble polished, but the shine feels wrong. Too clean. Like the place is trying to hide what it’s been.Most of the staff have gone, taking quiet leaves of absence or just not coming back at all. Veronica is gone too—retreated somewhere private to salvage what’s left of her reputation. Sydney’s room was cleared out overnight. No goodbye, no scene. Just gone.Only Nico’s shadow lingers. His study door is sealed, crime tape stretched across it, the desk inside probably still smelling like his cologne and broken glass. He’s not here anymore. He’s somewhere else—under investigation, under guard, under everything.For the first time in years, I can walk through this house without listening for footste