All Chapters of MY CRUEL HUSBAND : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

IT IS TOO LATE Anne's POV My footsteps echoed sharply across the polished floor as I headed for the exit, but Michael’s shadow clung to me like a stain that refused to wash away. Every step he took behind me reopened wounds I had spent years stitching shut with discipline, resolve, and silence.“Anne—please,” he called again, louder now, desperation stripping him of dignity.I spun around so fast my hair whipped across my face. The fury inside me erupted without restraint.“Do you ever stop?” I shouted. “Do you ever stop chasing what you threw away?”Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. I didn’t care. Let them see. Let the world witness the man who once reduced me to nothing.“You maltreated me,” I went on, my voice trembling not with weakness but with suppressed rage. “You dismissed my voice, my pain, my worth. You treated me like an inconvenience—like a woman who should be grateful just to exist in your shadow.”Michael’s lips parted, but no sound came out.“You betrayed

REGRET Anne's POV “The will is gone,” he admitted. “The transfer documents too. She took them. Half of everything I built… legally hers now.”My heart skipped. “Michael, that’s—”“Unbelievable?” he finished bitterly. “I know.”For a moment, neither of us spoke. My anger, once blazing, had dulled into something heavier—something complicated.“You understand now why I’m calling,” he said softly. “If Greg completes the acquisition, I lose everything. My life’s work. My name.”“And you want me to save you,” I said.“Yes,” he whispered. “Not because I deserve it—but because you’re the only one who can.”I leaned my head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Images of the past flashed before me—pain, abandonment, tears I cried alone.“You hurt me deeply, Michael,” I said at last. “I don’t know if you truly understand that.”“I do now,” he replied. “Losing you was the beginning of my downfall. Losing everything else was the punishment.”His voice broke completely. “I’m not asking

LATEST SURPRISE Maxwell’s POVThe door clicked softly behind her, but the sound carried weight. I looked up instinctively from the couch, where I had been sitting with my jacket loosened and my mind half on the evening news, half on the silence that had settled into the house.Anne didn’t call my name. She walked in with a strange deliberateness, her heels slow against the floor, her shoulders squared, her face unreadable—but not calm. There was something in her eyes, a storm restrained by discipline. I had seen that look before. It was the look she wore when a case went deeper than expected, when truth revealed teeth.She dropped her bag near the console without ceremony. My gaze followed her as she crossed the room. I said nothing. Years of loving her had taught me when to speak—and when to wait.She sat beside me quietly, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating off her body. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers interlaced tightl

ACTUAL MEETING Maxwell POVI reached my office exactly twenty minutes later because I overspeed on the highway. I went straight to my office, avoiding multiple attention from my workers who may want to gain it as we usually do. I got a lot of work this morning.I stepped inside my office and sank into my chair, placing my briefcase in a suitable place. I heard a sharp knock on my door, which snapped my attention from the computer screen I am booting. “Who is there?” I asked curiously. I wasn't expecting anybody to come to my office. My tone is sharp, firm but tender. “This is Mister Zainab,” I heard her voice reverberating from outside, behind the door. She is one of the few workers I really appreciate because of their good work ethics, wisdom, prudence in spending concerning executing projects and accountability. I can't ignore or send her back.I hesitantly permitted her to enter. “The door is not locked.”Her door pushed open and stepped in, putting on a warm smile to greet me,

PAST BETRAYAL Maxwell’s POV“I really pray that the government approves my corporation to partake in the plan of the United States of America to revive pharmaceutical manufacturing.”My father’s voice drifted down the staircase before he fully appeared, calm and measured, carrying with it the weight of a man who had built his life on discipline, patience, and principle.His footsteps were soft—almost reverent—as he descended the stairs. That was always him. Mr. Foster never announced his presence with noise or arrogance. Even in our mansion, with its marble floors, towering pillars, and chandeliers that glittered like frozen stars, he moved as though he were a guest in his own wealth, not its master.My mother and I were seated in the living room, half-engaged in a television program neither of us was truly watching. The room itself was a testament to years of honest labor—Italian leather sofas, framed awards lining the walls, photographs of groundbreaking ceremonies and humanitarian