Semua Bab He Wants Me More After Divorce: Bab 231 - Bab 240

Karl’s POVMy father picked up on the first ring.“Karl.” Not a question. Not surprised. Just my name, dropped flat like he’d been sitting there waiting.“Dad,” I said. “Mom told me about the snake.”A pause. I heard him shift—the creak of his chair, the one by the kitchen window he’d claimed twenty years ago and defended against all challengers since.“She told you it was nothing, didn’t she,” he said.“She told me you think someone left it there.”“Because someone did.”No hesitation. No hedging. He said it the way he said everything, like the matter had been settled before I called and he was simply informing me of the outcome.“Dad—”“Listen to me,” he cut in. “I’ve lived in this house for thirty-one years! I know every animal that comes through that garden. Foxes in winter. Hedgehogs under the shed. That fat pigeon your mother insists on feeding even though it’s destroyed every tomato plant I’ve ever grown.”I leaned back in the chair and pressed the phone harder against my ear.

Harrison’s POVI said nothing.My hand stayed flat against the cold glass, fingers spread as I stared at the glass. My breath left a small fog circle on the surface.“I’m not advising you either way, Mr. Emerson. I’m—”“Laying out the shape of it,” I said flatly. “I understand.”“Is there anything else?”“No.”“I’ll have the Donovan agreement drafted by end of day. I’ll send it to your personal email.”“Thank you, Erica.”She hung up.I lowered the phone and stood at the window for a long moment, staring down at the car park where the delivery van was pulling away and a woman in a red coat was walking briskly toward the building entrance.I dropped into my chair and pressed my thumbs into my eye sockets. Hard. The pressure bloomed red and black behind my eyelids.I held the position, grinding my thumbs against my own eyes because there was nowhere to go and nothing to do that didn’t cause damage to someone.Report the intimidation and my mother’s entire past would spill into public re

Harrison’s POVHer breathing changed on the other end of the line. Faster now. A slight ragged edge to each inhale, barely perceptible but there, the sound of composure being held together with effort rather than habit.“You are being extremely unfair.”“I am being extremely accurate, and you know the difference.”“You’re asking me to—” she began.“I’m asking you to tell me the truth,” I said. “That’s what I’m asking. Possibly for the first time.”“That is cruel,” she whispered sharply. “That is an incredibly cruel thing to say to your mother.”“It’s not cruel. It’s honest. There’s a difference, and I think you know that too.”“I have always done everything—”“I know what you’ve done,” I said. “I know about the council flat. I know about the offices you cleaned before dawn. I know about the toast. I know all of it, Mother, and I have never—not once in my life—thrown any of it in your face!”My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles ached.“But I also know you built a life on li

Claire’s POV“Your address on the label, my name scrawled across the top in marker,” Margaret said, thrusting the box forward. “I’m starting to think that new postman is doing it on purpose.”“Thank you, Margaret,” I said pleasantly.“Last week he left Mrs. Green’s blood pressure medication on my porch.” She shook her head. “Blood pressure medication, Claire! The woman needs those pills. I had to walk them over in my slippers.”“That’s ridiculous.”“It’s beyond ridiculous. It’s a public health hazard.” She shifted the box into one hand and gestured broadly with the other. “I called the depot. Twice. I said to the woman—very politely, mind you—I said, either train him or replace him, because at this rate he’s going to kill someone.”I took the box. My grip closed too tight around the cardboard and the surface buckled under my fingers.“And the bins,” Margaret continued, entirely unbothered by my silence. “Did you see the email? Thursday now. I missed it completely last week. The whole

Claire’s POVI pressed my free hand flat against the table, fingers spread.“Harrison,” I said quietly. “It’s your mother.”I stopped. Not deliberately. The next sentence wouldn’t come. My jaw had locked and I had to work it loose, rolling it once to the left before the muscles released.“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” I said.My fingers dug harder into the wood grain. The edge of the table bit into my palm.“Come tomorrow,” I said. “Morning. Whenever suits you.”I swallowed. My throat clicked in the empty kitchen.“Bring Estelle if you want.”I heard the name leave my mouth. Seven years of working to erase that woman from my son’s life—from his vocabulary, his memory, his future—and I’d just dropped her into a voicemail invitation like I was telling him to bring a bottle of wine.“I don’t care anymore,” I said flatly.I hung up. The phone landed on the table beside Margaret’s parcel.I sat there for maybe thirty seconds, looking at the objects on the surface. The parcel with i