The Wife Who Returned のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 50

The apartment was quiet, wrapped in the soft glow of city lights filtering through the glass wall. Lucien and I had spent the evening researching, more journals, more dead ends on the Entity, but the weight of it all had melted away when he pulled me onto the couch after dinner. His hands were gentle at first, tracing the lines of my shoulders, my waist, like he was memorizing me all over again. We'd been careful since my recovery, sticking to foreplay, soft touches that built tension without crossing the line. But tonight felt different. The air hummed with it.I straddled his lap in my floral lingerie, the sheer lace bra and matching panties I'd slipped into after my shower, knowing exactly what it would do to him. The pink roses embroidered on the fabric were delicate, almost innocent, but the way the lace hugged my curves felt anything but. Lucien was in his silk night pants, loose and dark gray, hanging low on his hips. No shirt. No underwear. Freeballing, as he'd casually admitt

The shot exploded through the apartment like thunder, deafening and final. Time slowed, Adrian's wild eyes locked on mine, his finger still squeezing the trigger, the gun bucking in his hand. The bullet slammed into the wall inches from my head, plaster cracking like bone. I screamed, instinct driving me backward, but before Adrian could fire again, the door crashed open with the force of a battering ram.Lucien.He barreled in like a storm, eyes blazing with pure, unfiltered rage. Adrian spun, gun swinging toward the new threat, but Lucien was faster, tackling him low and hard, shoulder driving into Adrian's midsection. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, the gun skittering across the hardwood. Another shot was fired wildly as Adrian's finger convulsed, ricocheting off the ceiling, grazing Lucien's side in a spray of blood."Lucien!" I screamed, horror clawing up my throat. He was shot, blood blooming dark against his black shirt, his face twisting in pain for a split second bef

The photo stared back at me from the laptop screen, sharp and unforgiving in the morning light. Lucien, my Lucien, locked in a kiss with a blonde woman in a red dress, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist. The gala backdrop was unmistakable: the crystal chandeliers of The Meridian, the swirl of silver-and-black decorations we'd danced under just last night. His suit, the dark navy one I'd helped him pick, the one that made his pale green eyes stand out like emeralds. Even the timestamp in the corner matched: 10:47 PM, right around when I'd stepped away for that emergency chat with the CEOs and investors.My breath caught, a vise tightening around my chest. Adrian's face flashed in my mind, his wild eyes in the apartment, the gun pointed at me, his rambling confessions of betrayal. *I loved you once. But you were just a means to an end. The words echoed, twisting like knives. I'd trusted him once. Loved him. And he'd shattered me. Now this? Lucien—with someone else? It look

The temporary apartment still smelled like fresh paint and someone else's decisions.I stood at the window in the dark, city lights bleeding gold across the glass, and pressed my forehead to the cool surface. Six days without Lucien. Six days of silence that somehow felt louder than every argument we'd ever had, every door slammed, every word swallowed. My neck still carried the faint yellow-green ghosts of his hickeys, but the real ache was somewhere deeper, somewhere beneath my sternum, where the bond we'd never bothered to name used to live quietly, steadily, like a second heartbeat.I kept telling myself the photo was fake. But the damage was already done, wasn't it? The second I'd seen Lucien's face on that image, his lips on another woman's mouth, something old and ugly inside me had cracked open and bled. Old betrayal. New fear. The same ancient terror that Adrian had planted years ago, patient as a seed, deep as a root: that I would always, always be the fool who loved too h

The threats had become a quiet drip of poison in my inbox.Not the dramatic photos from Morocco anymore. Just small, precise needles. A scanned copy of Whitmore’s daily schedule with one line highlighted in red: *8:15 a.m. – courthouse steps*. A single voice message of his granddaughter laughing at preschool, followed by ten seconds of silence. Another email that simply read: *He’s been like a father to you, hasn’t he? It would be a shame if he never made it home tonight.*I forwarded them all to the investigator, then deleted them so Lucien wouldn’t see, as we still had connected accounts. We still hadn’t spoken. Not since the night he left the folder on my coffee table. But the white roses kept appearing on my desk every morning. Our eyes were still locked across the office floor, neither of us looking away first. Marcus kept asking for that second dinner with the same gentle patience, and every time I said “maybe soon,” I felt like I was betraying someone I hadn’t even gotten back