All Chapters of VENGEANCE AS CRUEL AS HIS LOVE: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Jennifer's POVThe room was dark; the only sound was the deep, even rhythm of Croft’s breathing beside me. The scent of our lovemaking still hung in the air, an intimacy that left me feeling claimed and secure. Tonight, it felt suffocating.It's been a year. One full year after the divorce from Stanley was finalized I had sex, so the feeling was strange and complicated. I turned my head on the pillow, watching him sleep. In repose, the sharp, calculating lines of his face softened. And the sight of it, the profound intimacy of it, sent a fresh, sharp pang of guilt straight through my heart.A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down my temple and into my hairline. Then another. I cried silently, the way I’d learned to do in my marriage, so as not to wake the sleeping giant. But this was a different kind of fear. This was the fear of my own soul rotting from the inside out.I had exiled myself, first from the gossip of Texas, then from my own family. My mother’s trembling, disappo

Jennifer’s POVThe celebration in the living room had a new, electric energy. Lucy was coming. The air itself seemed to buzz with the promise of her arrival. And then, my mother, her face still glistening with happy tears, clapped her hands together.“That’s it. We’re celebrating,” she announced, her voice thick with emotion but firm with purpose. “I’m making my peach cobbler.”I exclaimed, “Peach cobbler.” It wasn't the delicate truffle-infused risotto or the seared foie gras I’d grown accustomed to. This was soul food. The food of survival, of celebration, of long, hot Sundays. It wasn't just a dessert.It was my childhood. It was summer vacation that felt endless, the sticky-sweet juice of Georgia peaches running down our chins. It was the reward for good report cards, the comfort on rainy days, the centerpiece of every birthday. It was the scent of my father, smiling, asking for a second helping.Mama bustled into the kitchen, and soon the familiar sounds followed: the clatter of t

Jennifer's POV The morning sun streaming through my window didn’t just wake me; it felt like it was personally congratulating me. A lightness, a pure, unburdened joy, fizzed in my veins. The grief and fear of the previous day had been washed clean by tears and laughter, leaving behind a radiant calm. Today was a celebration. Today was to make up for lost time.I jump out of my bed and practically move into the kitchen, where my mother was already sipping coffee. Happy and Peculiar were slumped at the table, still looking sleep-soft.“Good morning, my beautiful family!” I announced. We are going shopping.”That got their attention. Two heads snapped up, eyes blinking away sleep.“Shopping?” Happy ask. “For what?”“For anything! For everything!” I laughed. “Consider it a belated ‘I’m sorry I ghosted you for a year’ gift. And a ‘thank you for not giving up on me. We’re going to the best place in Albany, and you are both getting whatever you want.”Peculiar let out a small, delighted shr

Stanley POV The loud metallic sound of the cell door was my daily symphony, a sound that never failed to send a fresh jolt of impotent rage through my system. This wasn't my life. This was a temporary administrative error, a glitch my lawyers and my money were in the process of correcting.I was Stanley Morgan, a billionaire, a titan. Not inmate #487321. I was led to the visitation room, my usual expression of anger firmly in place. Another pointless meeting with my lawyers, no doubt, to discuss appeals that went nowhere.When the guard grunted, "Morgan, visitation," I straightened my orange jumpsuit as if it were a Brioni suit.I strode into the visitation room, already preparing my usual opening line.It was my mother.But not the mother I knew. Not the flawlessly dressed society queen who’d visit with a tight, pained smile, whispering about holding her head high. This woman was a Fury. Her usually perfect composure was slightly disheveled, and her eyes… her eyes burned with a cold

Jennifer's POV**The news of my engagement to Alistair Croft didn't just spread through Texas; it ignited a wildfire, fanned by the winds of envy, hatred, and sheer, unadulterated shock. I felt it before I saw it, a shift in the atmosphere the first time I walked into my gallery after the announcement. At the gallery, Sarah’s congratulations were a little too bright. A donor I was courting a piece for shook my hand and said, “Quite the power move, my dear. Croft, of all people.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.The whispers were no longer about the "wicked woman who put her husband in jail." They were sharper this time.*In the upscale boutiques on Post Oak Boulevard: “From a prison wife to Croft’s fiancée in a year? She’s certainly… efficient. A woman whispered to her friend while examining a handbag she couldn’t afford.Her friend laughed and let out a clucking sound. “Oh, please. It’s a transaction. He gets a beautiful, scandal-hardened trophy. She gets a get-out-of-poverty-free