《His Forgotten Love Returns: The Return of the Ex-wife》全部章節：第 171 章 - 第 180 章

* RACHEL’S POINT OF VIEW * Aurelia’s face contorted, a mask of shattered composure as she scrambled to gather the photos from the floor and the bed. She clutched them to her chest as if they were razor-edged shards of glass — precious, yet capable of drawing blood. “Rachel…” she started, her voice a ghost of itself. “What? Does the cat have your tongue now?” I snapped, my voice vibrating with a sharp, hysterical edge. “What do you have to say for yourself? What is there left to say?” “You’re getting it all mixed up,” Slade intervened, his voice low and steady. “Whatever you think is happening here…” “Then tell me, Slade! What do I think is happening? Enlighten me!” He took a heavy breath, his shoulders dropping as if a physical weight had finally crushed him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, okay? I found out about Declan last year. I found out... that he is my son.” My heart twinged at the confirmation, a sharp, tangible ache that radiated through my ribs. Yet, strangely, the

* SLADE’S POINT OF VIEW * Every evening, I follow the same hollow routine. I return from the office, the weight of the company still on my shoulders, and sit in the plush seat in front of her bed. I spend hours staring down at her, tracing the familiar lines of her face and mourning the silence that has replaced her laughter. I miss her so much it feels like something essential has been carved out of my chest. I want her to come back — to wake up and fill the void that has grown in our home. The children are constantly asking about her, their small voices filled with a confusion I can't yet fix. I haven't permitted them to visit her, terrified of how they might react to seeing their vibrant mother so still and tethered to machines. “What are you waiting for, Rachel?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I’ve been talking to her constantly, just like Rick suggested. He said hearing a familiar voice can give her a reason to fight her way back to the surface. And hell, there are a mi

* RACHEL’S POINT OF VIEW * Barbara was checking my vitals, her brow furrowed as she looked at the monitor. Being a nurse, she was always in “work mode,” but with me, she was also the sister I never had. “You know you could be discharged anytime you want, right?” she said, giving me a pointed look. I was currently scrolling through my e-reader. Slade had gotten it for me the moment I asked; I had missed reading so much. It was as if my love for stories had vanished with my memories, but now that they were back, the hunger for a good plot was ravenous. Slade had even promised that for every digital book, he would buy me the physical copy. I can't thank him enough. It’s not that I can’t buy them myself, but there’s something special — something intimate — about him filling my bookshelves with the stories I love. I realized then how much I missed the sensory experience of a book: the weight of it in my hands, the rough texture of the paper, and that intoxicating, vanilla-like scent

* RACHEL’S POINT OF VIEW *After Abbie and Cale left and Aunt Rose settled into the guest room, I spent some precious, quiet moments with the twins, soaking in their scent and laughter. Eventually, I headed back to our room. Slade was still in his office finishing up some work, so I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering coldness of the hospital. I stood there, eyes closed, thinking about how my memory had finally come back to me.The bathroom door opened, and I turned to see Slade walking in. He was naked, in all his rugged, masculine glory — his muscles rippled under the dim light, and the sight of his powerful frame made the air in the room vanish.My husband.The moment my eyes raked over him, my body responded with a sharp, familiar ache. My skin felt sensitized, my breath hitching as he stepped under. He didn't say a word; he didn't have to. He reached for me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling my body flush against his. The contrast of

* SLADE’S POINT OF VIEW *I stared down at her on the hospital bed, my gaze fixed on the thick white gauze wrapped around her wrist. The bandage covered the place where she had sliced into her own skin in an attempt to end it all. Did she even understand the weight of what she had tried to do? Life is a fragile, sacred thing — a gift that so many are fighting to hold onto in the wards of this very hospital — and yet she treated it like a bargaining chip in one of her games. Suicide isn't a dramatic exit or a tool for manipulation; it's a permanent, devastating tragedy, and seeing her use it this way made my stomach turn. I realized then that my mother hadn't just started to lose her mind; she had lost it a long time ago. She was simply too far gone now, drifting in a reality where she was the only victim. “I knew you were going to come…” she whispered, her voice weak but laced with a terrifying sense of satisfaction. “Of course, you knew I was going to come! What the hell is wro