Semua Bab After The Divorce: Ex-Husband Regrets And Begs Me: Bab 261 - Bab 270

ELARA'S POV:The morning light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my London penthouse, turning the white walls gold and casting long shadows across the polished wood floors. The city is waking up below me, a symphony of distant traffic and early risers and the hum of a million lives being lived. I stand at the window, a cup of tea growing cold in my hands, and I watch the world move on without me.My penthouse is my sanctuary, my workspace and my everything. It is filled with bolts of silk and rolls of chiffon, with half-finished garments draped over mannequins and sketches pinned to every available surface. The air smells like fabric and thread and the faint sweetness of the roses I keep on the counter. It is beautiful and functional and also the physical manifestation of everything I have built.I am twenty eight years old and I am one of the most successful fashion designers in the world. My name is on every magazine cover. My designs are on every red carpet. My collecti

ELARA'S POV:I told myself it was just curiosity. Just the normal awkwardness of being stepsiblings. Just the strange dynamic of a blended family.But deep down, I knew the truth. I have had a crush on Alistair Ashcroft since I was eighteen years old. And I have never been able to shake it off.I set down the photo, my hands are trembling and my heart is pounding.I have not seen him in seven years. He left when he was eighteen. He never visited. He barely called. He sent gifts on birthdays and holidays but never came home.I have always wondered why. I have always wondered if I did something wrong. I have always wondered if he was running from me.*A sleek black car pulls up to my building on a thursday afternoon, and my driver hands me a thick cream-colored envelope as soon as I step out. I recognize the Ashcroft crest immediately, embossed in gold at the top. My mother's handwriting curls across the front, elegant and familiar.I do not open it right away. I hold it in my hands, f

HOPE'S POV:​She sits in silence for a few seconds, looking at me like she is trying to figure out how much I actually know. Finally, she lets out a small laugh and shakes her head. "You are way too smart for your own good, Hope."​I have heard that sentence a million times. My mom says it. My dad says it. Everyone says it when they realize I am not acting like a normal kid.​"I am not too smart," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I am just paying attention while everyone else is looking somewhere else."​Elara lets out a long sigh and sets her phone face-down on the cushion between us. She turns her body toward me.​"Hope," she says gently. "There are just some things that are really complicated. Grown-up stuff that is hard to explain."​"Try me," I reply. "I can understand plenty."​She hesitates, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Then she leans closer and drops her voice. "Alistair is coming home. For the party."​I do not let my face change. I actually already knew that. I heard

CELESTINE'S POV:​I want to believe what he is saying. I really want to sit here and tell myself that everything is fine, that Alistair is just busy running his business, and that he will walk through the door and everything will go back to normal.​But I cannot get rid of this bad feeling in my chest. There is something missing from the picture, something nobody is willing to say out loud to me.​"Do you remember the morning he left?" I ask him.​Lysander’s jaw sets tight. "I remember."​"He was only eighteen years old. He had just won that massive scholarship and he was so excited about his future. And then, out of nowhere, he packed up his things and left. He said goodbye to the two of us and Hope, but he completely avoided Elara. He couldn't even stand to look at her before he walked out."​Lysander looks down at the gravel for a long time without saying a word.​"Maybe that was why he left," he says finally.​I frown at him. "What do you mean by that?"​He pauses, choosing his wo

ISABELLE VALANCOURT'S POV:​The bedroom is completely quiet except for the soft, steady beeping of the medical monitors sitting on the nightstand near the window.​I have been sitting right here in this high-backed armchair for hours now, holding my husband's hand in both of mine, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The whole room smells like the dried lavender I keep in the ceramic dishes, mixed with that sharp, artificial smell of medicine that I have come to hate over the past few months. It is a smell that constantly reminds me of doctors, clean hospital corridors, and endless hours spent sitting in cold waiting rooms listening to bad news.​August is sleeping right now. His face looks peaceful, completely relaxed for the first time all day, with the sharp lines of pain finally smoothed away from around his eyes. He looks so much younger when he sleeps like this, almost like the boy I fell in love with all those decades ago. His thick silver hair has gotten thin over