All Chapters of THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS : Chapter 81 - Chapter 89

ELENA The first thing I do when I get home is shout, “I’m taking a shower!” like I’m announcing a victory. I don’t even wait for a response. I kick off my shoes in the hallway, already humming a soft at first, then louder, the melody Arthur and I were working on earlier. It’s stuck in my bones, in that place between my ribs and my throat, where joy settles when it doesn’t ask permission. The bathroom fills with steam, and as the hot water hits my shoulders, I close my eyes and let the music replay in my head. The way our bows moved together. The way he corrected me without condescension. The way he listened. I smile to myself, shampooing my hair, thinking ridiculously, that if I’d had a mentor like him when I was younger, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so many years shrinking myself to survive other people. By the time I’m dressed and walking towards the dining room, I feel light. Happy; almost… normal. That should’ve been my warning. Dinner is already set. The table looks perfect;

ELENAWork is supposed to save me. That’s the lie I tell myself as I sit behind my desk, spine straight, shoulders squared, eyes glued to spreadsheets that blur no matter how many times I scroll. Numbers are obedient. They don’t ask questions. They don’t suddenly inform you that your entire genetic history has been rewritten by one sentence at a dinner table.Arthur Blake is my father. I mean, I would have probably acted differently if it wasn’t thee Arthur Blake, but it had to be him because the world hates me. When Isabelle and I were in our early 20s, I went there a lot at his house and shared dinner with him because he was Isabelle’s father. I sign a document harder than necessary. No, focus.I bury myself in reports, investor projections, acquisition models,anything that requires logic, strategy, and control. Anything that doesn’t have a pulse or a violin or a pair of familiar eyes that once looked at me like I was disposable.My phone buzzes for the fifth time in an hour.Arthu

ELENAThe next day begins with chaos. Not the dramatic, headline-worthy kind, but the quiet, domestic chaos that only exists when a toddler decides the world should bend to her mood before eight in the morning.I wake to the unmistakable sound of tiny feet slapping against wooden floors and a very loud...“Mommyyyyy!”I barely have time to sit up before Angela launches herself onto the bed like a determined missile. Bun-Bun follows shortly after, landing squarely on my face.“Oof,” I groan. “Good morning to you too.”She giggles, completely unapologetic, climbing onto my stomach and sitting there like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she does. My house, my heart, and my entire nervous system she belonged.“It’s sunny,” she announces, pointing dramatically towards the curtains. “That means pancakes.”I squint at the clock.6:12 a.m.“Angela,” I say dryly, “the sun is rude. It comes up far too early.”She gasps. “Don’t be mean to the sun.”I laugh despite myself, pulling her into

DAMIANAngela doesn’t give me a chance to breathe. She drags me down the hallway like she’s been rehearsing this moment all day, her little fingers wrapped tightly around mine, determined, bossy, so much like her mother it almost hurts.“Careful,” I chuckle, pretending my heart isn’t trying to punch its way out of my chest. “You’re going to make me trip.”“No,” she says seriously, “you have long legs.”Elena follows a few steps behind us, arms crossed again, shoulders tense. She’s watching every movement like I’m a bomb she’s not sure has been defused.Angela’s room is warm, soft pastel walls, stuffed animals everywhere, and drawings taped unevenly to the wall; crayons, shaky lines, a sun with too many rays.She pulls me inside proudly. “This is my room.”I nod, slow and reverent. “It’s beautiful.”She beams. “Mommy picked it.”Of course she did.Angela hops onto the bed and immediately starts pointing at things. “That’s my bunny,but not Bun-Bun. Bun-Bun is special. He should be

ELENA I don’t walk out of the restaurant. I flee. My heels click too fast against the pavement, my breath uneven, my chest tight like someone’s wrapped wire around my ribs and keeps pulling. The cool night air slaps my overheated skin, but it doesn’t calm me. Nothing does. Not after that voice. Not after the way Damian said it; like I still belonged somewhere he could summon me from. “Elena... wait!” Adrian’s voice follows me into the parking lot. I fumble for my keys, hands shaking, vision slightly blurred. I almost drop them when fingers wrap around my wrist. I freeze. His touch isn’t rough, it’s not threatening either. But I’m already too raw, too wound up, too full of other men’s voices in my head. “Elena,” Adrian says again, softer this time. “What’s wrong?” I turn to him, disoriented, my heart still pounding like I’ve been running from something feral. His face swims into focus... concerned, earnest, too close. “I... I don’t know,” I admit, and hate how small my v