บททั้งหมดของ My Statue Husband: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

VIVIAN POVThe rain beat a relentless, metallic rhythm against the high leaded windows of the study, matching the frantic, irregular pacing of my own pulse. I couldn't sit. Sitting meant admitting that my world hadn't just shattered—it meant accepting that I was expected to pick up the razor-sharp pieces with my bare hands while everyone watched me bleed."They took everything, Stan," I whispered. The words scraped against my dry throat, stripped down to raw, unvarnished nerves.I stopped near the cold hearth, wrapping my arms tightly around my ribs as if physically trying to keep my organs from spilling onto the rug. "The council, my uncle... even the guards I’ve fed since I was small enough to hide under the kitchen counters. They looked right through me today. Like I was already a ghost."Stan stayed in the deep shadows near the heavy oak doors, tall and immovable as an iron beam. But his stillness wasn't indifference; it was a leash he was holding on himself. Every muscle in his j

VIVIAN POVThe smell of rotting iron and bitter nightshade filled the small cabin, choking out the faint scent of rain."Stan!" I collapsed onto the cold stone beside him, my hands hovering in absolute panic above his trembling chest. The dark, ink-like veins were branching up his neck like black lightning, crawling toward his ear and jawline. His skin was scorching, hot enough to burn me through his thin gray tunic, yet he was shivering so hard his teeth were clicking together."The... the guard's blade..." Stan gritted out, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out like iron ropes. A heavy spasm racked his massive frame. "Wyvern's gall. A slow burn... meant to kill without a splash of blood.""No. No, no, no," I gasped, tears scorching my eyes as I frantically pulled at his blood-soaked tunic, trying to see the puncture wound near his ribcage. The flesh around the tear was black, oozing a thick, foul-smelling liquid. "You knew. You knew you were poisoned when we were running t

VIVIAN POV"No."The word tore from my throat, raw and ragged, before I even realized I was speaking."I beg your pardon?" the secretary’s distant, sterile voice crackled through the speaker."Tell my father that even on his deathbed, he can't buy my mother's soul," I breathed. My body was shaking so violently the phone rattled against my ear. "Tell him I’d rather freeze on the street than let that woman touch a single thread of my mother’s work.""Vivian, be reasonable. You have forty-two dollars. We checked," she said, her tone sharpening into outright condescension. "Without this money, you are ruined. You'll be on the street by next week.""Then I’ll be on the street," I snapped, and slammed the end-call button.I dropped the phone onto the worktable, collapsing back into the hard wooden chair. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms tightly around my legs, and buried my face against my denim fabric. The silence in the room returned, heavier now, suffocating me with the

VIVIAN POVThe fluorescent lights of Discount Craft & Textiles hummed with a low, agonizing buzz that seemed to vibrate directly inside my skull.It was 9:00 AM. My eyes were bloodshot from the few minutes of sleep I’d managed on my living room floor, my hands were still faintly stained with gold metallic dye from last night, and that heavy white envelope from Marcus Vance sat like a ticking pipe bomb in the front pocket of my tote bag. I hadn't opened it. I couldn't. If I read whatever legal threat sat inside right now, the sheer panic would paralyze me, and I still needed three yards of cheap, synthetic-blend lining fabric if I had any hope of finishing my emergency alterations for my afternoon client.I stood near the back corner of the warehouse-style store, my fingers picking through a bargain bin of discarded poly-blend ribbons. Everything here smelled of stale plastic, damp cardboard, and failure. Three months ago, I wouldn't have set foot in a place like this; my studio had be

VIVIAN POVThe burn in my palm still throbbing, a phantom fire left behind by the medallion Stan had yanked away seconds before, was the only thing keeping me grounded. My head reeled from the visions—the ash, the throne, the blood—but there was no time to process the madness. Not with the silence between us stretched so tight it felt ready to snap.Stan walked a half-step ahead of me down the paved path, his posture rigid, his usual effortless grace replaced by a tense, guarded stillness. He hadn't said a word since we left the apartment building, refusing to meet my eyes. Every time I tried to ask about the golden light or the sudden terror on his face, he brushed it off with a low, dismissive request to “just walk.”The unresolved dread boiled in my stomach, competing with the lingering humiliation of seeing Leo and Zara. I hated how small Leo still made me feel, but more than that, I hated how completely clueless I felt standing beside Stan. Who was he really? And why did touching