All Chapters of THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

DAMIAN I watched Elena from across the room like a man observing a memory that had learned how to breathe without him. She was laughing with Lucas too easily and too comfortably. Her shoulders were relaxed, her posture open, the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly where you stood in a room. That alone unsettled me. Elena used to carry tension like armour. Now she wore calm like a crown. And she still hadn’t come to me. That was the part that gnawed. By now, Alex must have told her about Angela and about the grave. About everything I’d done in the shadows while she vanished from my life like a ghost that refused to be found. I pressed my fingers against the rim of my glass and exhaled slowly. She knows, and yet, nothing. No confrontation, accusations, and no trembling voice demanding answers. Just… patience. Which scared me far more. God, I was an idiot. The thought hit me so hard I nearly laughed at myself. All those years. All those nights, I chose silence over truth, c

ELENA The room feels unreal. Like I stepped into someone else’s life wearing my skin. Applause crashes over me in waves, loud and overwhelming, but all I hear is the pounding of my own heart. Each beat reminds me that this is real. That I am standing in a room full of people who are only just learning what I’ve known for a short time and what I ran from for years. I lift my chin and start walking in my soaked dress. The floor beneath my heels gleams, polished marble reflecting chandeliers and faces frozen in disbelief. Every step towards the stage feels heavier than the last, not because of fear, but because of memory. My uncle’s eyes never leave mine. Alexander Hart. The man who taught me how to play chess before I learned how to braid my own hair. The man who convinced himself from my life so thoroughly that I convinced myself he was just a beautiful dream I made up to survive. Now he stands there, waiting. I pass Damian, yet he doesn’t move or blink. He looks… broken. Like so

ELENA The room doesn’t explode the way it should. No screaming, no dramatic arrests, no lightning strike from the ceiling to expose every lie at once. No. What happens instead is worse. People watch. They watch as if they are spectators. They stare the way wealthy people do when something scandalous happens in a room they paid to be elegant in; faces carefully neutral, curiosity sharpened, judgment tucked behind champagne glasses. The kind of silence that weighs heavier than shouting. Angela is still in Isabelle’s arms. That is the only thing I can see. Everything else fades into a blur of black suits, glittering gowns, chandeliers that suddenly feel too bright—too fake for something this raw. Damian stands in front of me like a wall that doesn’t know which side it belongs to. I laugh. The sound surprises even me. It comes out brittle, cracked, almost hysterical. “Do you know what the funniest part is?” I say, my voice carrying just enough to make people lean in. “I buri

DAMIAN I stand there. That’s all I do. Stand and watch Elena walk away from me like the world hasn’t just cracked straight down the middle. Her back is straight, her steps are steady. No hesitation or looking back. That hurts more than if she’d turned and glared at me. Because this feels final. I always thought losing Elena would be the worst thing that could happen to me. I was wrong. I didn’t just lose my wife tonight. I lost Angela forever. The truth I never said out loud, never even let myself think too hard about presses against my ribs until it’s hard to breathe. I didn’t refuse the DNA test because I was afraid of the truth. I refused it because I was afraid of losing her. Because if the results came back negative… If science told me she wasn’t mine… Then I would still love her. And that terrified me more than anything else. I wanted Angela to be my daughter so badly that I chose denial over certainty. I chose silence over proof. I chose comfort over Elena. And no

DAMIAN The bottle is already half-empty by the time I stop pretending I’m sipping. Cognac burns slower when you don’t care. I’m still in my banquet suit—tailored, expensive, useless. The jacket hangs off the chair, my tie is loosened like I lost a fight with my own reflection, and my cufflinks are somewhere on the floor. The house is too quiet without Angela’s laughter bouncing off the walls. Too big and too hollow. I take another swallow straight from the bottle. I should feel victorious, powerful and in control. Instead, I feel like a king sitting on rubble. I hear the door open. I don’t move at first. I know who it is before I even hear her footsteps. My chest tightens, my grip on the bottle hardens. “Elena,” I mutter to no one. I laugh under my breath. Of course she came herself. Of course she didn’t wait for me to sober up, didn’t beg, didn’t hesitate. That was always her problem. Too strong and oo unwilling to bend. I drag myself up and open the door. She stands there, e