Semua Bab Never Forgive You, My Ex-Husband: Bab 81 - Bab 90

HANNAHI should’ve known something was off from the way the staff kept their eyes down when I entered the dining room. The house has moods—like it breathes, like it gossips through marble and glass—and today it felt charged. Heavy.Nico was waiting.He didn’t rise when I came in. He just sat at the head of the table, the leather of his chair creaking as he leaned forward, hands resting flat on the wood. A man trying to look composed. A man already unraveling.“Hannah.” His voice was clipped. Low. Too controlled.“Nico,” I said carefully. “You look—”He slammed a folder down in front of him, cutting me off. The sound made me flinch.“Tell me you didn’t kill our child.”The words landed like a knife to the chest. For a second, I couldn’t even breathe. My hand gripped the back of the nearest chair, knuckles white.“What?”His eyes blazed, jaw tight. “Don’t make me repeat it. Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen the records.”I forced myself to move, sliding into the seat across from him. The folder

HANNAHNico always did love an audience.He gathered us all in the great hall that morning—me, Veronica perched smugly in the corner, Sydney pale but simmering, staff lined up like soldiers. His voice carried the weight of an announcement he’d been rehearsing in the mirror for weeks.“A renewal of vows,” he said, arms spread like a king blessing his court. “A celebration of family, of survival. A reminder to the world that my wife and I are unbreakable.”His wife. His unbreakable family. He didn’t even look at me when he said it—he looked past me, like I was already the smiling portrait on his wall.The staff clapped because they had to. Veronica dabbed at her eyes, pretending she was touched. Sydney didn’t bother hiding her glare.And me? I smiled. I even let my fingers brush Nico’s sleeve when he came close, like the obedient wife he needed me to be. Inside, though, I felt the heat of bile in my throat.A vow renewal. With the media invited, the city’s elite, half his allies from ove

HANNAHThe envelope is light. Almost nothing.But it feels like it weighs as much as the house I’m sitting in. Heavy in my lap. Heavy on my chest. My name is written across the front in Nico’s handwriting—sharp, blocky, like it’s less my name and more a claim.I should burn it. Toss it into the fireplace, let the ashes scatter, never know. Because if I don’t look, maybe I can still pretend some of this wasn’t planned. That some piece of my misery wasn’t designed.But pretending is what got me here.So I slide my finger under the flap and tear.The sound is tiny, but it slices through the silence like a scream.Inside: papers. Folded neat, tucked flat, smelling faintly of antiseptic. I pull them out, my hands already shaking.The first page almost makes me laugh. Hawthorne Fertility & Women’s Health.Of course. That shiny little clinic with the quiet hallways and marble counters. Veronica’s recommendation, wrapped in silk and sympathy. The place where I thought I was being helped.I rea

HANNAHThe house woke before I did.By the time I opened my eyes, it was already buzzing—voices rising and falling like bees trapped under glass. Doors opened and closed, footsteps pounded in a rhythm I didn’t recognize. The air smelled different too, heavier. Lilies, always lilies, but multiplied by ten. Their perfume clung to the curtains, the rugs, even the sheets I’d barely slept in.The vow renewal. Nico’s grand production. His last lock around my neck.The dress waited for me on the closet door. Not mine. Never mine. Emerald green silk that shimmered even in the shadows, sleeves dusting my wrists, neckline scooped low enough to remind the room I was his. He’d chosen it. Of course he had.I sat on the edge of the bed staring at it for too long. My pulse drummed against my throat, sharp and insistent. Putting it on meant surrender. It also meant survival.Alvarez came in with her practiced hush, carrying velvet boxes of jewelry. “The pearls,” she said, setting them down. Her voice

HANNAHThe glass in Nico’s hand caught the light like a blade. His smile stretched wide, practiced, too perfect. He lifted his glass and said it in that velvet tone he used whenever he wanted to trap me in front of an audience:“Darling, say a few words. Share your heart.”The applause was instant, a ripple of polite expectation rolling through the ballroom. Every head turned, eyes sharpened with hunger. They wanted the performance—the fairytale comeback, the wife who had wandered and returned, the man who had been “patient” enough to win her back.My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I thought the microphone would pick it up when I spoke. For one terrible second, my throat closed.But then I remembered: this was why I came back. This was the stage I had been crawling toward all this time. If Nico wanted a performance, I’d give him one.I glanced up—and saw David.He was half-hidden in the corner, dressed like a shadow, plain suit, no tie. To everyone else, he was just another gue