Semua Bab THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS : Bab 121 - Bab 130

DAMIANHospitals are too quiet at night, but not peaceful quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like something is holding its breath.I stand outside Elena’s room, arms folded carefully so the pull in my side doesn’t show. The fresh bandage is tight under my shirt. It burns, but the good kind of burn. Pain keeps me sharp.Four men stand in front of me. They are not boys. Not hired muscle from a street corner.Men.Matteo. Silent, ex-military, eyes like cold steel. Rico. Built like a wall with anger issues. Daniel. The thinker; Observes before breathing And, Viktor. Doesn’t speak unless blood is involved.They’re positioned in a semi-circle around me, waiting.Hospitals have security. But hospital security didn’t stop someone from poisoning my wife, so now I brought my own.I let the silence stretch before I speak. It’s deliberate. Let them feel the weight of why they’re here.“She does not breathe alone,” I say calmly.Matteo nods once. “Understood.”“No one enters that room without b

DAMIAN My bedroom smells like gun oil and cologne. A strange combination, but fitting. I stand in front of the mirror, shirtless, peeling off the hospital-grade bandage from my side. The gauze is stained a dull red. Not fresh and not fatal. Just irritating. The bullet wound stretches angrily across my ribs; stitched, swollen, and defiant. I press two fingers against it, pain shoots through me. It makes me feel better. Pain means I’m alive, and tonight, I need to feel very alive. I pull on a black compression shirt slowly, careful not to reopen anything. The fabric clings to muscle and scar, smoothing over weakness. Over vulnerability. Then the jacket; black, tailored, and sharp enough to cut someone’s ego in half. I look at myself in the mirror. Dark eyes, unshaven jaw controlled fury. My lips twitch slightly as I think about how people have turned my territory into their playground. They walk into my hospital, they poison my wife, they shoot me, and they whisper to the media l

DAMIAN My footsteps echo down the corridor as I walk towards Elena’s room. It is 3 AM, and the guards straighten when they see me. Four of them armed and alert. No one is getting within breathing distance of her again. I nod once and step inside. The room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the monitors and the city lights bleeding in through the window. Machines hum steadily, and the IV drips rhythmically. She looks smaller and that’s the first thing that hits me. Elena has always filled rooms without trying. Presence, fire, and stubborn elegance. Now she’s still and fragile. Her hair spills across the pillow like silk, her skin is pale but no longer as deathly as it was earlier. There’s colour returning. I pull a chair closer and sit beside her bed. For a moment, I just watch her. I’ve faced men with guns pointed at my head, negotiated with criminals who’d gut someone over a misplaced comma, but this? This terrifies me. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You

ELENA If you had told me two months ago that I’d be sitting in my glam room, voluntarily curling my own hair for my second wedding to the same man, I would’ve laughed, probably dramatically, but here I am.The room smells like vanilla setting spray and fresh peonies. Soft daylight filters through the sheer curtains, painting everything in a golden glow that feels intentional, like the universe is finally behaving.My wedding dress hangs behind me on a mannequin. Silk, minimal lace, and elegant. No cathedral train this time. The first wedding was a spectacle, but this one is a choice.Angela is downstairs with Marina, wearing a tiny ivory dress that she insisted must “sparkle like Mama’s.” She’s been practising walking down the aisle for three days like it’s a runway show, and today she’s going to watch her parents choose each other.Again.That matters more than the flowers, more than the ring, and more than the guest list.My phone lights up on the vanity. It is from Golden Star Fou

ELENA Two years later, and my life looks nothing like it did the day I almost lost it. The Golden Star Foundation now has three centers across the state. We’ve expanded education programs, trauma therapy units, and scholarship funds. The walls are brighter, the waiting lists are shorter, and the laughter is louder. I thrive here. Give me children with complicated pasts and stubborn hope; I will build empires out of that. Give me corporate boardrooms, volatile investors, and men who measure worth in quarterly returns; I will develop a migraine. After my recovery, I tried going back to Hart Capital Management. I really did, but sitting at the head of that table again felt like wearing shoes that no longer fit. Every financial dip felt personal, every aggressive investor call reopened wounds I didn’t know I still had, and when clients began pulling out after the instability… it snowballed. The media whispered, the board panicked, annnd competitors circled. I didn’t sleep for weeks, un