บททั้งหมดของ FORSAKEN WIFE, NOW A BILLIONAIRE'S GREATEST REGRET: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The silence in my apartment was no longer empty. It was filled with the scent of wet clay, a raw, earthy smell that felt more real than the expensive perfumes that had haunted my old life. My hands, caked and dry, were finally still. The urn sat before me, imperfect, lopsided, and utterly mine. A testament to love, not loss.The high of confronting Doña Caridad had faded, leaving a grim satisfaction. I had the cufflink. I had the recording. I had won. But the victory tasted like dust.My burner phone buzzed, vibrating against the clay-speckled table. Dr. Sapiera.“Gwen? I just heard from the hospital board. All inquiries about me have been dropped. Lanc’s lawyer called. They’re… they’re prepared to be ‘accommodating’ with the divorce. What did you do?”“I showed her the ghost,” I said, my voice flat. “It was uglier than she remembered.”“My God. Are you alright?”“I will be.” For the first time, I almost believed it.We hung up. The silence returned, but it was different. It was waiti

The hum of the private jet’s engines was a world away from the roar of the sea. Lanc had insisted on it, this final, grotesque display of wealth. A parting gift, or perhaps a penance. I accepted it not for the luxury, but for the silence. No prying eyes in a first-class cabin, no whispered recognitions. Just me, the quiet, and the ghost of the life I was leaving behind.The pilot, a man with a professionally neutral demeanor, had greeted me. “The flight plan is filed for Nice, Mrs. Arcony. We’ll be wheels up in twenty.”“It’s Ms. Gonzalez,” I’d corrected him softly, and he’d merely nodded.Now, seated in the cavernous cabin, I watched the ground crew scurry below. I felt untethered, a balloon cut loose. The fight was over. The victory was ashes in my mouth. All that was left was the vast, terrifying expanse of the rest of my life.The main cabin door hissed open. I assumed it was the flight attendant with a final pre-flight check.But the footsteps that approached were heavy. Familiar

The peace was a fragile vessel I carried carefully, but the cracks began with a single, innocuous email.Subject: Regarding the Angela Gonzalez FoundationDear Ms. Gonzalez,My name is Caleb Thorne, a reporter with the Chronicle. I’m writing a feature on new philanthropic ventures in the city and was deeply moved by the mission statement of your foundation. I would be grateful for the opportunity to speak with you about its inspiration and your vision for its future.Sincerely,Caleb ThorneMy finger hovered over the delete button. Publicity was the last thing I wanted. The foundation was my sanctuary, a quiet place of healing. Putting it, and myself, in the spotlight felt like a violation. But Arthur, ever the voice of reason, had gently persuaded me.“It could help more children, Gwen. Awareness brings donors, and donors mean you can expand, reach more Mayas.”So, I agreed. Caleb Thorne met me at the community center. He was younger than I expected, with sharp, intelligent eyes that

The defiant peace I’d found at the community center lasted exactly three days. The scandal had faded from the headlines, replaced by a new political crisis, but the damage was done. Donations had slowed to a trickle, and a persistent, wary tension hung in the air. I was managing, rebuilding, but the foundation felt fragile, like a sapling after a storm.Then, the letter came. Not an email, not a tabloid article. A thick, cream-colored envelope, hand-delivered by a uniformed courier. The paper was heavy, expensive. The handwriting was a frantic, sloping scrawl I recognized with a jolt that traveled straight to my bones.Gwen,They’re lying to me. Keeping me sedated. Mother has me locked away, but it’s not a clinic, it’s a prison. She’s telling everyone I’m insane. She’s stealing my company, piece by piece. I saw the article. That reporter, Thorne… he knows things. Things only you could have told him. You’re helping her, aren’t you? You’re helping her destroy me.I have to see you. I’m

The crisp Swiss air felt like a baptism. As the clinic doors hissed shut behind me, the last spectral thread tying me to Lanc Arcony snapped. There was no fanfare, no final, dramatic goodbye. Just a quiet, profound severance. The ghost was laid to rest. I was free.The return to the city was a return to color and sound after the sterile silence of the clinic. Arthur met me at the airport, his embrace a warm, solid anchor in the bustling terminal. He didn't ask for details, he just held me, his silence saying everything I needed to hear: You are home. You are safe.The foundation, once wobbling from Caleb Thorne's exposé, began to find its footing again. The scandal had receded, and in its wake came a different kind of attention. Not the sensationalist kind, but a quieter, more respectful curiosity. People had seen the ugliness and were now drawn to the beauty we were building in spite of it. Donations, while not the flood from before, became a steady, reliable stream.One afternoon, I