All Chapters of My Ex husband left me to die, Now I watch him burn : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

"I will call her right now! What does she mean by that?! She has to delete it!" Veronica shrieked, her voice cracking with sudden, hysterical panic as she stared down at her glowing phone screen. Her manicured thumb hovered over the chat, trembling violently with a toxic cocktail of raw fury, humiliation, and a sickening dread she refused to acknowledge. "What is it, Mum?" Susan asked, her voice dropping into a bored, sharp drag as she looked up from her vanity mirror, carefully reapplying a thick, glossy layer of heavy lip gloss. "Can you imagine Mrs. Evans?!" Veronica spat, her voice pitching into a harsh, grating screech that scraped against the cramped, paper-thin walls of the living room. Her chest heaved beneath her cheap blouse. "I just finished talking to her on the phone, buttering her up about our new social standing, and now she's dropping land-mine questions right in the middle of the neighborhood group chat!" Susan paused, the gloss wand hovering an inch from her

Matt sat on a dusty wooden crate in one of the stripped-down bedrooms of the estate, surrounded by raw concrete walls and loose wiring dangling from the ceiling like skeletal vines. Downstairs, the deafening thud of sledgehammers and the high-pitched whine of concrete saws reverberated through the structural core, shaking the floorboards beneath him. The architectural team was right in the middle of installing the brushed titanium door frames and laying the heavy foundation for the impenetrable biometric obsidian gates. He swiped mindlessly through his phone, staring at the high-definition renders he had forwarded to Vanessa’s car dashboard earlier that morning. The sleek, three-dimensional designs were stunning—imported Italian marble for the master bath, warm mahogany paneling concealing heavy-duty reinforced frameworks, and minimalist luxury hiding raw, apocalyptic strength. By all metrics, the project was moving at lightning speed. Yet Matt could barely feel an ounce of satis

The ambient jazz playing over the lounge speakers did nothing to soften the razor-thin tension hanging over the corner booth. David sat across from a high-profile corporate investor in an exclusive hotel lounge, leaning in to finalize the contours of a lucrative advisory contract, hoping to put the exhausting chaos of the past week behind him. He stroked his tie, forcing a smooth, polished smile that felt entirely hollow against the tight knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. He hadn't expected to see Andrew standing at the edge of their table—swaying slightly, eyes bloodshot, and radiating a bitter, volatile aura that screamed trouble. Andrew’s suit coat was unbuttoned and wrinkled, smelling faintly of stale gin, his dark hair disheveled as if he had run his hands through it a hundred times in total despair. Before David could even gesture for him to back off or flag down security, Andrew had already pulled out the heavy leather bench seat opposite them and dropped heavily uninvited

Clara had been pacing restlessly across her plush office rug, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the floor as she tried to burn off a volatile spike of midday anxiety. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocatingly tight. When the frosted glass door suddenly swung open without so much as a polite knock, it admitted a gust of humid afternoon air and a very frazzled, high-strung Jane Evans. With her expression pinched with sharp exhaustion and vibrating irritation, Jane marched straight across the room, dropped uninvited into the client chair, and clutched her designer handbag tightly against her chest as if it were a shield protecting her from the chaos of the world. "I am at my absolute wit's end," Jane breathed out sharply, her voice trembling with high-strung frustration, her chest heaving under her silk blouse. "I have been running around the city all morning trying to track down my daughter-in-law, and the sheer stress of it is going to put me in an early grave." Jane

"Who said anything about having a family meltdown?" Veronica snapped, tossing her disheveled hair back with an aggressive flick of her wrist, her desperate need for self-preservation instantly overriding the reality of the smoking wreckage around them. "We all know my daughter-in-law got a house for us..." Clara let out a dry, incredulous sound—halfway between a scoff and a laugh. She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing Veronica with unmasked pity and disgust. "Really, Mrs. Tinnons? We all know she didn't get a house for you. She got it for herself to get as far away from this toxic household as humanly possible." Veronica’s face flushed a furious, mottled crimson. She let out a sharp, defensive laugh, waving a manicured hand dismissively as if swatting away an inconvenient truth. "You clearly didn't see the pictures in the neighborhood group chat," Veronica shot back, her voice climbing into a shrill, defensive octave. "Oh, I wouldn't blame you—you don't even run in our socia