All Chapters of He Wants Me More After Divorce: Chapter 221 - Chapter 230

Harrison’s POVThe sudden absence of water made the kitchen feel enormous. She stood with her back to me, both gloved hands resting on the edge of the sink. Water dripped from the pot into the basin.“Keep going,” she said quietly.“The charity boards she claimed membership of,” I said. “Three of them have no record of her name. The family connections she cited for twenty years—cousins in London, a great-aunt who left property in Belgravia. I’ve never met any of them. Not at Christmas, not at my wedding. Because they don’t exist.”I set the fork down.“She built herself from scratch,” I said. “Piece by piece. She figured out which charities mattered, which schools impressed people, which dinners led to the right introductions. She did it alone, and she did it so thoroughly that by the time I was old enough to notice, the performance had become the person.”Estelle pulled off the first glove. One finger at a time—index, middle, ring, pinkie, thumb. The rubber made a small sucking sound

Estelle’s POVI was already at the stove when the flat started waking up.The pan sizzled quietly. Butter melted in small golden pools while I pushed scrambled eggs around with a spatula, folding them over themselves the way Chloe liked—soft, broken into big loose curds.Toast sat in the toaster, not yet popped.A glass of orange juice stood on the counter at room temperature, because Lucas hated cold drinks and I knew that now.Chloe arrived first.She came shuffling into the kitchen dragging her blanket behind her on the floor like a fabric tail. Her hair stood out in about six different directions, her eyes were puffy and half-closed, and she climbed onto a kitchen chair using both arms and one knee as if the chair were actively trying to defeat her.“Triangles,” she announced.“Good morning to you too,” I said without turning.“Triangles,” she repeated firmly, planting her chin on her folded arms on the table. “My toast. Cut into triangles. Not rectangles. Not squares. Not whateve

Estelle’s POVHarrison followed in his own car because he needed the office afterward.I strapped the kids into the backseat and pulled out of the lot while their argument continued behind me, having shifted seamlessly from sleep-talking to whether seahorses or octopuses were the superior marine animal.“Male seahorses change color when they dance,” Lucas insisted loudly, leaning forward between the seats. “Mrs. Falcon showed us the actual video. It’s called courtship display.”“You told me yesterday they change color exactly like chameleons,” Chloe shot back immediately. “Those are completely different mechanisms.”“Where did you even learn the word mechanisms?”“I read, Lucas.”“You read picture books!”“I read SCIENCE picture books, which is significantly more useful than watching a three-minute video and then getting every detail wrong.”“I didn’t get every detail—”“You said exactly like chameleons. I was right there. I remember.”“You remember wrong!”“My memory is excellent. As

Karl’s POVMy fingers rested against the desk.“What happened?” I asked.“I was going to tell you something,” she said carefully. “About yesterday. Your father and I—we had a bit of a…well.” She exhaled. “It’s probably nothing.”“Mom.”“No, really,” she said quickly. “It turned out fine.”I didn’t say anything. Then she cleared her throat.“Anyway,” she said briskly, “there’s a new bakery on the high street. Ridiculously expensive, but the croissants are good.”I blinked. “Croissants?”“Yes,” she said brightly. “I bought two yesterday and your father complained the whole time.”“That sounds like him.”“Oh, and the Owens girl three doors down?” she continued. “Started university last month and already wants to quit.”“That was quick.”“She says the lectures are boring,” she said. “I told her boredom never killed anyone.”I nodded slowly, though my hand had gone still on the desk.“My book club has collapsed entirely,” she added. “Nobody finished the novel.”“What happened instead?” I a

Karl’s POVI stopped. My hand hovered over the keyboard while I read the message once. Then again.Estelle’s email address sat in the recipient line. Her name rested in the gray bar at the top of the screen, plain and ordinary, the way it always looked when we traded work messages late at night.I had typed that address hundreds of times.Sometimes sending her meeting times. Sometimes small notes about things we had both already discussed in person.Sometimes nothing important at all.My fingers hovered over the keyboard. If I sent the message, she would read it. Then she would call Harrison. Not tomorrow. Not after thinking about it. She would do it immediately.She would tell him the photograph had not been Lyndsey’s idea alone.Claire had been there from the start.I rubbed my thumb slowly across the edge of the laptop.The photograph came before everything else. Before the pregnancy. Before the hospital. Before the bribed nurse and the missing baby.All of that happened later.The