บททั้งหมดของ Betrayed by love : บทที่ 81 - บทที่ 90

POV: IsabellaSilence filled the space, broken only by the soft tick of the wall clock - each beat thudding inside me like something alive. Perched on the sofa's edge, fingers shaking, pulse roaring, eyes locked on the screen in my palm. Set for Tuesday: the procedure. Done before sunrise, hidden from Victor, kept far from every face that might say no.Shaking hands moved across the glass, eyes stuck on those words again and again. Unbelievable, really. As if stepping into something with no way back. Logic shouted - pause, think of Victor, the unborn child, everything already built - but then Mom came to mind. Her weak body. How she needed me. The fear that saying no would cost her life - that pulled harder.My breath caught, sourness burning at the back of my tongue. This queasiness that clung to me for days, once brushed off as just early pregnancy, now cut deeper - like regret sharpening with each step taken. Around my middle, my arms folded tight, almost like pressure from outside m

POV: VictorA weight settled after the doctor finished talking, every syllable pressing into me. Frozen there in the hall, sharp with antiseptic air, clarity came piece by piece. Traces remained, he explained - signs of a termination only recently completed. His voice stayed measured, eyes tracking my stance. The evidence suggested a procedure, one taken shortly before this momentA gasp stuck in the throat. Knuckles whitened, stinging across each palm now - fierce and bright. None of this could be happening. What once was tenderness toward Isabella shattered under a rush of anger instead. Heat rose through the chest, sparked by deceit.Down the hall, my steps echoed hard against the floor tiles before I opened the door. She lay there - Isabella - on the mattress, pale as parchment, her breathing thin, eyes wide when they caught mine. From somewhere broken came a sound: “Victor…” Almost no motion in her mouth.“You… you were behind this?” The question cracked out, trembling from rage pre

POV: IsabellaSunlight crept in, gentle, behind the sheer fabric hanging by the window, touching walls and floor with quiet warmth. Mine. That word sat oddly right, even though the place held little beyond four walls and borrowed furniture. Heavy eyes, yes - but also something stubborn beneath them, refusing to look down. Names echoed: Victor shouting, Eleanor crying, Margaret always moving pieces on some hidden board. Each memory clung, thick as smoke after a fire long gone out. Still, what mattered now began tomorrow - and that meant stepping forward without turning back.A warm mug rested between my palms while steam curled up near my face. Lately, Thomas showed up different - no questions, just space where silence felt like kindness. His way of staying close without reaching too far spoke louder than words ever would.From the door frame, he watched with folded arms, a faint grin pulling one corner of his mouth. Maybe now it's starting to feel normal, he thought out loud.I glanced u

Isabella's Pov A figure stared back at me from the glass, someone almost unfamiliar. Not quite sure if it was really me. Hair done up neatly, falling softly around my cheeks, yet my gaze - too big, too tense - gave everything away. The gown pressed close to my skin, rich green like shadowed leaves, fitting without effort. A slow exhale slipped out, uneven, uncertain. This evening means stepping into the crowd, under bright lights. Last night, Victor was supposed to show up. That idea squeezed my ribs until breathing hurt.A small twist of my body, checking each reflection. Maybe it’s possible. Only… stay calm. My thoughts trembled, closer to begging than belief. Pictures rushed back without warning: the sharp weight of his eyes when he first saw me after everything went public, the hushed moment we stole a brief, wrong kiss, then those still evenings filled with ordinary things that pulled me in too many directions.Shoving the past into shadows, my mind latched onto what came next.

Victor's Pov Tight gowns pressed close under too-bright lights. Chandeliers dropped sparkles across faces, while hushed laughs mixed with glass sounds through the high walls. Not rushing, spine straight, face still - yet something wild churned below. Each movement, each small dip of the head to someone known, acted like glue holding broken pieces together.Still stuck on her. Isabella. The dishonesty, the hidden choices, how she’d erased that life - it gnawed, wouldn’t let go. Fingers twitching, ready to face her down, make her speak, but people here hate drama. Moving slow feels wrong, even if rushing would burn it all. Tension pulled tight, barely holding.Memories shoved their way into my thoughts, sudden and clear. That night played again: her cheeks wet, fingers shaking, voice breaking as she lied about losing the baby. Each detail landed like a stone inside me, hard to breathe under what felt like guilt or grief or both. Still - despite everything - that old current hummed belo