Todos os capítulos de My Ex Husband Who Despised Me Before, Now Wants Me Back.: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

The lake house sat at the end of a long pine road, with a wide wooden deck that hung over the water and a view of blue mountains on every side.Gideon had not asked. He had simply said, “Pack a bag,” and Sarah, for once, had obeyed.“Two days,” he said, as the car rolled up the gravel. “No phones. No papers. No Williams. Jackson has men on the road and the gate. You can sleep, you can swim, you can shout at the ducks.”“I do not shout at ducks.”“Then you will start.”She laughed. It surprised her. It was the first real laugh she had had in two weeks.They spent Saturday doing nothing. They ate pancakes on the deck, and these ones were not burned. They took a small boat out on the cold clear water. Sarah trailed her fingers in the lake and watched the pines slide by, and for the first time in a long time, her shoulders came down from around her ears.That night, they sat on the deck wrapped in blankets with the stars wide open above them. Gideon had put on an old radio. A slow song dr

St. Anne’s Hospital smelled of floor polish and fear.Sarah sat on a plastic chair in a long white hallway with a bandage on her forehead and her hands in her lap. She had been there since seven. It was now nearly midnight.She had washed the soot off her face. Beatrice had brought her clean clothes and a cup of tea that had grown cold. A doctor had told her, twice, that she was lucky. Three stitches, a bruised shoulder, a mild shock.She did not feel lucky. She felt like a glass that had been dropped and not yet broken.“Miss Moore?” A young nurse stood in front of her. “Mr. Hale is awake. He is asking for you.”Gideon lay in a high white bed, with his left arm in a cast to the shoulder and a bandage around his head. He looked pale and cross and utterly alive.“Tell me they caught him,” he said.“The truck was found burning on a back road. Reyes says no plates.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “How is your head?”“It is full of fireworks.” He looked at her face. “You are hurt.”“A sc

The quiet house stood in the pale morning with its roses nodding and its iron gates open.Frederick walked up the gravel path without ringing. A maid saw him through the window and dropped a plate. He did not stop. He went through the hall, past the shining floor, past the study with the brass lamp, and out through the glass doors into the garden.Hannah was there.She sat on a white iron bench under the rose trellis, wrapped in a gray shawl, with a cup of tea steaming at her elbow. She looked small. She looked, for one moment, like an old woman.Then she saw his face, and the stillness settled over her again like a mask.“My son. How kind of you to visit.”“Mother.” He stopped three steps away. “I have something for you to hear.”He took out a small cheap speaker from his pocket, the kind that costs five dollars. He had borrowed it from the landlady. His bandaged fingers fumbled with the switch. The little gray stick clicked into place.Hannah’s own voice filled the garden, thin and

The conversion notice reached Williams Empire at nine on Monday morning, by courier, in a plain white envelope.It was twelve pages long. It said, in very polite words, that Williams Empire had failed to deliver a clean audit by the thirtieth day, as promised in Clause 41 of the Aurevia bridge agreement. Because of that, the loan was now converted, by law, into shares.Aurevia Global Consortium would become the largest shareholder of Williams Empire. Not by force. Not by trick. By the signature of everyone who had agreed to it.Hannah’s accountants had refused to sign the audit. She had told them to, three weeks ago, as a cheap trick to delay things. It had not occurred to her that the trick was a trap.At ten o’clock, the boardroom filled up. Hannah’s chair, at the head, was empty. She was still in the hospital. Her loyal directors sat with worried faces and nervous hands.Sarah sat at the center of the long table in a plain gray suit. She looked calm. Beside her, Gideon, his arm sti

Three days later, Frederick stood in a stranger’s kitchen with an apron tied around his waist and a very large black pot in front of him.“More pepper,” said Beatrice.“I do not think I should.”“More. You cannot cook yam pottage with a timid hand.”She had arrived at his rented room that morning with a basket on her arm and a stern look on her face. “You cannot live on oats,” she had said. “Come. I will show you how to feed yourself.”He had no idea why she was doing it. He was afraid to ask. So he followed her to the small kitchen of her honey-colored house, and now he was stirring a pot of yams with a wooden spoon, and his bandaged hands hurt, and the whole place smelled wonderful.“It was Sarah’s favorite,” Beatrice said, without turning. “When she was a girl. Her father used to make it on Sundays. He burned the bottom every time.”“It was her favorite,” Frederick said slowly. “She made it for me, once. The first month we were married. I did not eat it.”There was a silence.“I kn