Semua Bab My Mom's Boyfriend : Bab 61 - Bab 70

(Beverley’s POV)The thrill wasn’t there anymore. The thrill that had once made my heart race and my body burn had faded into something heavy, exhausting, and suffocating. What started as stolen kisses and forbidden touches had become a cage I couldn’t escape, a constant cycle of lies, fear, and aching guilt that left me drained every single day. Every secret text I deleted immediately after reading, every night I lay awake waiting for the familiar creak of the hallway floorboards, every stolen moment when Mom was out or asleep… it all felt like chains now. I was tired of hiding. Tired of pretending everything was normal at dinner while my stomach twisted into knots. Tired of being the secret, the other woman in my own home.The guilt had become unbearable since Mom’s heart-to-heart. Her words kept echoing in my mind: how Marcus had given her stability and love after Dad left, how she finally felt safe again. Every time I saw her smiling at him, reaching for his hand across the table

(Bianca’s POV)I decided not to confront them. Not yet. The heart emoji, the little lies, the lingering glances, they all pointed in one terrifying direction, but I still clung to the hope that I was wrong. That my mind was twisting innocent moments into something monstrous because of Linda’s warnings and my own exhaustion. Accusing them without real proof would shatter our family forever. If I was mistaken, Marcus might never forgive me, and Beverley would pull away even more. So instead, I created an opportunity. A test. A way to see what they would do when they thought I wasn’t watching.That morning over breakfast, I kept my voice light and casual as I poured coffee for all of us. “I’ll be out for several hours today,” I said with a smile, looking between Marcus and Beverley. “Running some errands, meeting Linda for a quick coffee, and maybe even hitting the mall afterward. I need a few things for work. I’ll be back late this afternoon or early evening.”Marcus nodded, reaching o

The confrontation finally happened in the living room, the same room that had become the epicenter of their secret affair. The air was thick with tension, heavy and suffocating, as if the walls themselves understood that everything was about to shatter. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the couch where Marcus and Beverley had been caught just the day before. The normalcy of the space now felt like a joke. Bianca stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to hold her broken pieces together. Her eyes were red from crying, but her voice, though shaking, carried a firmness born of raw pain and betrayal. She looked at both of them, Marcus standing near the fireplace, his face pale and drawn, and Beverley curled on the edge of the couch, knees drawn to her chest like a child seeking protection.“I saw you,” Bianca said, her words cutting through the silence like a knife. “I saw you together. On this couch. Kissing.

Marcus tried to fix what he had broken.But he was no longer in the house. Bianca had made that clear the night she told him to leave. He was gone, physically removed from their daily lives, yet his presence still haunted every corner of the home like a ghost that refused to fade. His cologne still lingered faintly in the closet in her bedroom. His coffee mug still sat unwashed in the back of the cabinet, and every time she reached past it for her own cup, her hand would still for a second, caught on the memory of a life that no longer existed. She thought about throwing the mug away more than once, but something always stopped her. Maybe it was easier to leave it there, untouched, than to admit that getting rid of it meant admitting he was really gone.In the days following the confrontation, the silence was deafening. Beverley stayed locked in her room most of the time, replaying everything in her head until it felt like her mind would break. She had betrayed her mother. Destroyed t

(Beverley's POV)I couldn't hold it in anymore.For weeks I had carried the words around inside me, turning them over and over until they felt worn smooth, like stones I kept in my pocket but never had the courage to set down. I had rehearsed this conversation a hundred different ways in the mirror, in the shower, lying awake at three in the morning staring at the ceiling. None of the rehearsed versions ever felt right. None of them captured the size of what I actually needed to say.That evening, I found Mom sitting alone in the living room. The television was off. She was just sitting there, staring at nothing, a cup of tea going cold on the table beside her. She looked smaller somehow, curled into the corner of the couch like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. I stood in the doorway for a long moment before I made myself move.I sat down across from her, my hands shaking. I pressed them together in my lap to try to still them, but it didn't help much. My heart