Todos os capítulos de Chasing His Ex-Wife Back: Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

Isabelle’s POV It rained that morning. Not the soft kind of rain that made you reach for a blanket or stare wistfully out the window with a cup of tea. This was heavier. Constant. The kind of rain that made the city seem smaller, somehow quieter—like even the sky was tired and needed to weep a little. I stayed in bed longer than usual. The silk sheets were warm, the sound of water against glass almost meditative. Nathan had left for school with Amara earlier. Stephanie had pushed my meetings to next week. There was no knock on the door. No text that needed immediate attention. It was just me. Alone with the quiet. And I didn’t rush to fill it. Not today. I sat up eventually, pulling the duvet around my shoulders and staring at the opposite wall. A large painting hung there—an abstract piece I’d bought during the first year I began rebuilding my life. I remembered the gallery owner telling me it represented resilience. Back then, I wasn’t sure what that looked like.

Isabelle’s POV It wasn’t until I stepped out of the Vanleigh Grand that I realized I’d been holding my breath all night. The cool night air hit my skin like a balm, sliding across my bare arms as the doorman handed me a small umbrella. The sky was overcast again, clouds heavy with the promise of another quiet rain. A part of me had hoped the weather would hold off—just long enough to make the evening feel less cinematic, less like the kind of night someone like Damion Blackwood would appear in like a ghost pulled from memory. But I suppose it didn’t matter anymore. He’d already gotten under my skin again. Just one sentence. That’s all it took. One sentence and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. “You look beautiful tonight.” I told myself it was nothing. Just another carefully placed word. A script he’d practiced. But even as the car pulled up and I slipped inside, I could still feel the weight of his presence lingering

Isabelle’s POV Three days had passed since the gala. Three quiet, measured days, where I carefully stacked my schedule with everything but stillness. Meetings. School drop-offs. Calls. Planning an expansion proposal that had sat untouched for over six months. Anything to keep myself from thinking too much. Anything to keep myself from remembering the way Damion looked at me. Because even now, I could still feel it. That look of remorse, yes—but something else, too. Something deeper. Something closer to… hope. And that was the most dangerous thing of all. Hope. Hope was what made women like me return to broken places with stitched hearts and second chances. And I wasn’t ready for that. Not again. ⸻ Nathan had asked about him again. We were on the balcony Saturday morning. The sky was pale, the air still cool, and he was sitting cross-legged with his sketchpad while I sipped my tea. “Do you think Daddy’s still mad?” he asked suddenly, coloring in a rough

Isabelle’s POV The sky was a soft gray when the news broke. Muted clouds hung low over the city like a whisper. The rain hadn’t started yet, but the air smelled like it would. I stood barefoot in my living room, wrapped in a robe, coffee cooling in my hands. The television was on, but the volume was low. I didn’t need the anchors’ voices. I could read the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the screen. “BREAKING: Walter Blackwood Sentenced to 30 Years in Federal Prison. Kaia Whitmore to Serve 24 Years Without Parole.” I blinked once. Slowly. No smile curved my lips. No breath of triumph escaped my chest. Instead, I felt something else. Stillness. Not peace. Not quite. But a kind of silence that didn’t scream anymore. The war was over. ⸻ Stephanie arrived a few minutes later. She didn’t speak right away. Just handed me a small, folded piece of paper. It was a printout—someone from the legal team had emailed her the courtroom statement made by the judge.

Isabelle’s POV There was something surreal about sitting across from Damion again. Not in a courtroom. Not in a hallway filled with tension. Not even at a gala where we played polite for the crowd. Just us. A table between us, a half-filled glass of sparkling water in front of me, and years of silence pressing on both our shoulders. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t lean in, or try to fill the space with grand apologies or careless charm. He just waited. Like he’d finally learned that presence, not performance, was what mattered. And maybe that’s what kept me in the seat. Because the man across from me wasn’t the one who handed me divorce papers and walked away. He was older now. A little more hollow around the eyes. A little slower in his movements. But steadier. Not broken. But changed. ⸻ “I thought I hated you,” I said softly. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine instantly. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.” “I still might,” I added, not to hurt him, but beca