Semua Bab Divorced With His Heir In My Belly: Bab 51 - Bab 60

[Tyler’s POV]The antique brass key resisted for a second before the lock of the heavy box clicked. My hands felt clammy as I pulled out a weathered leather accordion file. I sat on the floor, the shadows of the room stretching long and jagged across the Persian rug. The first few pockets were filled with what I expected: old bank statements, receipts for designer bags I’d bought her during our honeymoon phase, and dental records. But as I reached the very back, my fingers brushed against a thin, translucent envelope tucked behind the lining.I pulled it out. Inside were carbon copies of airline tickets and hotel vouchers.My brow furrowed as I scanned the dates. These weren't the trips to Zanzibar or the Maldives I had paid for. These were flights to Zurich, to Macau, to places Lucy had never mentioned visiting. And the names on the passenger list made the blood in my veins to thickened.Claire Richardson. And Tate.I stared at the ink. Claire was Lucy’s maiden name, one she hadn't

[Sarah’s POV]The weight of Norman’s grip on my waist didn't lessen, even as his breathing began to steady against the fabric of my dress. Outside, a low wind rattled the windowpane, whispering through the vines, but inside, the air was thick with a confession that hadn't yet found its words."Norman," I whispered, my fingers threading through the dark, unruly hair at the nape of his neck. "You’re shaking. Look at me. What are you sorry for?"He didn't move at first. He remained anchored to me, his forehead pressed against my stomach as if he were trying to disappear into the simple reality of a home-cooked meal and a quiet evening. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders broke. He let out a long, shuddering breath and pushed himself up.He didn't stand all the way. He stayed on one knee for a heartbeat longer, looking up at me with eyes that were raw, stripped of the professional mask he wore like shield every day at the vineyard."I don't deserve this," he said, his voice a jagge

[Sarah’s POV]The silk of my midnight-blue dress felt like a second skin, cool and fluid as I moved through the foyer of the house. I caught my reflection in the gilded hallway mirror, the color brought out the gold flecks in my eyes, and I felt sexy.It was Saturday evening, and the silence of the house was punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock.A sharp, familiar irritation pricked at my chest. Tyler was supposed to have been here hours ago for his supervised visit with Caleb. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted. I had dialed his personal line three times, only for it to roll over into that smooth, corporate voicemail that felt like a slap in the face."Is he still not here?" Mae asked, stepping out from the kitchen. She was drying her hands on her apron, her eyes darting toward the front door."No," I said, checking my watch for the tenth time. "His time ended two hours ago. I’m not letting him disrupt Caleb’s routine just because he’s decided to b

[Sarah’s POV]It was a Rider funeral. Meticulously orchestrated, expensive, and performatively somber.I stepped out of the black town car, the gravel crunching under my heels. Beside me, Dex adjusted his suit jacket, his eyes scanning the perimeter with the sharp, unblinking focus of a hawk. He didn't need to be told that we were walking into a lion’s den, he could feel the predatory hum of the undercover journalists lurking near the oak trees, their long lenses disguised as binoculars.As we walked toward the gathered crowd, the rhythmic drone of the priest’s rites faltered. One by one, heads turned. I kept my chin level, my gaze fixed on the casket at the center of the clearing. I wasn't here for the drama.The priest cleared his throat and continued the prayer, but the atmosphere had shifted. The moment the "Amen" left the priest's lips, the crowd began to disperse toward the reception tents. But one figure didn't move toward the refreshments.Lucy broke away from the inner circl

[Tyler’s POV]My grip on the steering wheel was so tight that my knuckles felt like they might burst through the skin. For thirty minutes, I had circled the blocks of Upper Manhattan, weighing my options.I could have gone to a hotel. I could have gone to my father’s estate in Greenwich. But a Rider doesn't run from his own property.I couldn't keep fleeing my own life because of a woman. It was a risk, I knew the storm that was waiting for me behind those penthouse doors, but the alternative was becoming a nomad in my own cityI stepped inside, and the first thing I heard was the crunch of glass under my boots. The penthouse, my sanctuary of marble and steel, looked like a war zone.The Murano glass vase, the one Lucy had insisted we buy in Venice to celebrate our third anniversary, lay in a thousand glittering shards across the marble foyer. The silk curtains had been ripped from their tracks, hanging like tattered flags of a defeated nation. In the living room, the remains of a thr