All Chapters of THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

DAMIAN Morning comes too quietly. No alarms, no shouting, and no slamming doors. Just a pale line of sunlight slipping through the guest room curtains like it’s afraid to wake me.I’m already awake. I don’t remember falling asleep, only lying there staring at the ceiling, replaying Elena’s voice in my head,sharp, wounded, furious, and Angela’s small body curled against me last night, trusting me without question.That’s the part that hurts the most.I swing my legs off the bed and stand slowly. Every muscle stiff, suit jacket still draped over the chair from last night like a reminder that this isn’t my house and I am not really welcome. Not really.I open the door quietly. The house smells like coffee, and that stops me. For a split second, my chest tightens with something dangerously close to hope. Elena always brewed it strong in the mornings; no sugar, just enough bitterness to match her mood before the world got to her.I follow the scent down the hall. Angela’s laughter reaches

ELENA I don’t rush out of the office. That would look weak, so I walk measured and controlled. My chin is lifted, heels are clicking against the marble floors like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence no one dared interrupt. I nod at assistants. I return a tight smile to Victor as I pass the glass offices. I even pause long enough to straighten my blazer, as if the meeting hadn’t just tried to gut me alive. Performance complete. Inside, though? I am unravelling thread by invisible thread. Everyone is suddenly an expert on my Europe decision. Everyone has opinions, projections, and very selective memories. They talk about losses as if I didn’t already calculate them at three in the morning while my daughter slept and my heart refused to. The worst part? They’re not entirely wrong... I know it, but I just won’t say it, because the moment I admit doubt, they’ll smell blood, and I will not bleed in front of them. Not for Damian. Not for Europe. Not for anyone. I keep my posture

ELENAThe house finally goes quiet after ten. That deep, sacred quiet that only exists once a child is asleep, and the world pauses long enough for guilt and thoughts to crawl out of their hiding places.Angela smells like lavender and baby soap when I tuck her in. Her hair is still damp, curls sticking to her cheeks as she hugs Bun-Bun under her chin. I read her the same story she asked for before; the brave little star who loses her way but still finds home. Her breathing slows halfway through page six. By page eight, she’s gone.I kiss her forehead.“I’m here,” I whisper, even though she’s asleep.Then I turn off the light and close the door carefully, like the answers I’m carrying might spill if I’m not gentle.I go straight to my mother’s bedroom. I already know she won’t be there. The bed is untouched and too perfect. No dent or warmth. There is no sign of a body that belongs there.I laugh under my breath. Of course. Of course, she disappears the moment I finally decide to conf

DAMIAN The gates slid shut behind us with a soft mechanical hum, the kind of sound that usually calmed me. Security, control, and oder.Tonight, it did none of that.I parked in the driveway, killed the engine, and for a moment, neither of us moved. The headlights washed over the front of my house, glass, steel, clean lines, everything deliberately solid. Unmoving, unlike the woman beside me, who looked like she might shatter if someone breathed too hard.Elena’s hands were trembling in her lap. That scared me more than her shouting ever could.She laughed suddenly; sharp, broken, and wrong in so many ways. A laugh you hear right before something breaks permanently.“So this is it,” she said hoarsely, wiping at her cheeks and failing because the tears just kept coming. “Your house. Of course. Why not end the night here, too? Add it to the list.”I turned towards her slowly, careful, like she was a bomb with the timer already counting down.“My life is cursed, Damian,” she went on, he

DAMIAN Breakfast went quiet in the most dangerous way. Not awkward, not tense, but intimate. The kind of silence that knows too much history. I ate slowly, pretending the eggs required my full attention, but my eyes kept betraying me; lifting, drifting, and landing on Elena without permission. She sat across from me in one of my shirts, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little wild from sleep, her face bare and soft in the morning light pouring through the windows. Beautiful. Painfully so. This woman gave me a daughter I had once denied. A truth that still lodged in my chest like shrapnel every time I let myself think about it. I’d chosen wrong. I’d chosen pride, control, and Isabelle, and I paid for it. I loved Elena more than I’d ever loved anyone. Still did. Ruining her didn’t stop that; it only made it hurt worse. I watched the way she chewed slowly, distracted, her thoughts clearly miles away. Europe. Her parents. Garrick Williams. Arthur Blake. A life cracked open at the sea