Todos os capítulos de THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORGOTTEN WIFE: My Husband's Redemption: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

BETTYIt’s impossible not to notice the black tax and gold dress from the VIP lounge. Especially because of how people’s bodies angle toward them without meaning to.I was hoping he wouldn’t show up, let alone her. And now seeing them here, settled comfortably among familiar power, stirs something I don’t have time to name.The last hour has blurred into smiles, introductions, glasses clinking, and business cards pressed into my palm with the kind of enthusiasm that feels almost unreal.Some of them don’t even wait to get home before sending me emails with the subject line "Urgent" or "Excited," photos attached, wish lists typed out with startling confidence.And I should feel nothing but exhilaration, but instead, beneath the buzz, doubt has started to creep in quietly, when I remember these people run in the same circles.If one of them decides I’m not worth the risk, the rest will hear about it before I can correct the narrative, and everything will slip between my fingers overnigh

BETTY“You shouldn’t be back here.” The words come out sharper than I intend as my eyes keep moving, scanning shelves, corners, shadows, and counting cases.The remaining bottles gleam back at me under the harsh storage lights, mocking me with their neat alignment.“So this is how you want to play it, huh?”I turn slowly, already stretched thin, already past the edge of polite.“I don’t know what you’re implying,” My brows draw together, exhaustion bleeding into irritation, “but you need to leave. Whatever you want to say to me can wait.”She doesn’t wait. She crosses the room in three sharp strides and grabs my hand, yanking it away from the shelves like I’m a problem she needs moved out of her path, the suddenness of it stealing my breath for a second.“You and I had a deal, Betty,” she snaps. “I did what you asked. Why couldn’t you do your part?”I stare at her, genuinely blank, my head still half-filled with logistics and numbers and how I am going to solve this champagne problem.

NATHANIEL.It’s nine o'clock in the morning, and I’m pacing the ground floor like a madman waiting for a verdict he knows is coming.The house is awake in that quiet, deceptive way it always is after a night of excess, sunlight slipping through tall windows as if nothing has shifted.The rest of the family arrived hours ago, filing back into their respective wings, and I have been lingering downstairs ever since, stalling, listening, hoping Betty doesn’t come down and do exactly what she promised.Announce the divorce, take Grace, and leave.I managed to delay her, barely, because I saw it in her eyes when I left. Whatever tether I thought still existed between us had finally snapped, and my lie—careless, selfish, convenient lie made that happen.Footsteps approach from the hallway, and I straighten instinctively, already bracing for the sight of suitcases scraping across the floor, but it’s not her.“Jesus,” Rhys stops short when he sees me. “You look like shit.”I turn away, jaw tig

BETTYMy world shifts. Like furniture being moved in the dark, or a floor giving way an inch at a time, not enough to send me falling, just enough to remind me that balance is temporary, and footing is a privilege I keep losing the moment I start to trust it.In the last hour alone, I have burned through anger, disappointment, panic, disbelief, and something far quieter that sits heavy in my chest and refuses to be named.I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I don’t even feel dramatic about it.Nathaniel takes Grace and leaves before she can ask questions, or see the look on my face and understand that something irreversible is happening.He doesn’t ask me where I want her to go, doesn’t warn me., just removes her from the blast zone.All part of the plan.Rhys leaves shortly after, his concern lingering longer than his presence, and then it’s just me and Harriette in the house.We don’t speak as we move to the dining room, the suitcases remaining in the foyer, proof that I had an exit strat

BETTYIt’s been a week since I settled into the guest house, and if I’m being honest, the first few days felt like I was trespassing in someone else’s memory.The house was beautiful in the way old money always is — quiet, preserved, untouched — but everywhere I turned, the walls stared back at me.Framed photographs lined the walls and mantelpieces, hung with almost obsessive symmetry.Harriette in her younger years, poised and sharp even in black and white. Her late husband standing beside her, dignified and distant. Nathaniel’s father in various stages of life, almost the whole childhood of Nathaniel.And then there were the others — men and women I didn’t recognize, their eyes carrying the same unmistakable Blackwell bone structure. Extended family.Ghosts. People whose names I would never learn, but whose presence made the space feel borrowed rather than mine.I took every frame down, one by one, careful not to crack the glass, stacking them gently on boxes as if I owed them that