The Ex-Wife's Unforgiving Revenge

l institution while I was pregnant. He stole our so

ty, secretly raising our daughter,

His mistress, Kiera, shoved Ida, whose head c

ly" dropped. It was his dead sister's diary, holding the tr

He thinks he can buy my forgiveness. He has no idea I'm

pte

n Chap

my son, stood across the school gymnasium. He recognized my face but not

as Adam, our son, his face contorted in a furious sc

thin dress she wore, patched from too many washes, offered no padding. A wave of

His voice was high-pitched, echoing his father' s boomi

tched a crayon drawing of a bluebird. It was identical to the

akers squeaking on the floor. I knelt beside Ida, pulling her close, checking for scrapes. Her breat

always there, hovering like a shadow, reinforcing the lie. She smoothed Adam' s perfectly press

lder, sharper, more formidable. Six years. Six years since he' d ripped my world apart. He' d sculpted himself into the ru

The pain was a dull ache now, buried deep beneat

h a surprise he couldn' t quite hide. It was a pra

eet, wiping the dust from her dress. She leane

daughter and me. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his e

lk-clad leg. Kiera offered me a tight, pitying smile. "Some childre

a. Adam merely lacks discipline." My voice was flat, devo

What is it you want, Jillian?" he asked, cutting str

is for my daughter to have the same opportunities as your son. A proper educ

irk playing on his lips. "Are yo

nwavering. "You created this situation. You to

eep auburn as mine, then to the curve of her cheek, before snappi

almost to himself. He took an involuntary

subtly behind my leg, creating a barrier. "Don' t t

, his gaze piercing

res from nearby parents. "Yours? After what you did to me? After you made sure I was locked away, pregnant and alone

he stated, a strange mix of recognition and pain in his eyes. "

I want what' s best for my daughter." I reached into my worn canvas bag, intending to pull out a tissu

anding open on the floor between his polished leather shoe

en a flash of intense emotion-grief, perhaps, or shock-crossed his face. It was an old, f

ering over the delicate pages

cooped her up, ignoring Grayson entirely. We moved qu

mor, sharp and insistent. It wasn' t a que

knew he wouldn' t catch me. Not yet. I knew Grayson. He was a shark. He

ps, the journal clutched in his hand, his eyes scanning the distance where I' d disappeared. He looked lost, a

u smiling?" she asked, her voice small and

lushed, my body electric with adrenaline. I looked almost healthy, almost vibrant. It was a stark contras

closer. My smile faded, replaced by the familiar m

her tiny hand tracing the outline of m

always had been. "He was... a man from a very long time ago," I

ted, her gaze thoughtful. Ida inherited Grayson' s striking features, softe

gh the words tasted like ash. "He' s just... a bri

ed during my escape, throbbed in my hip and shoulder. The scars beneath my clothes felt like burning brands. The thin soles of my shoes

n street, a sleek black car, far too expensive for this neighbor

oncern and something else entirely-a raw, frantic desperation I hadn' t seen since... sinc

almost pleading. "Let me help you. This isn

rimal instinct to protect my child from the source of all my pa

ing my path. "Jillian, please." He reach

the unfamiliar man, whimpered, bury

d dangerous. I tried to push past him, but he was

.. I want to see her." His eyes were fixed

A moment of silence stretched between them, a silent recognition passing through the

add

breath hitched, a visible tremor running through his powe

' t wait. I shoved past him, adrenaline surging throu

n, wait! What did she just say?"

presence. He stood on the cracked pavement, his expensive suit looking utterly out of place. His eyes sc

y a whisper, as if the words themselves were

lled home, the Columbia University apartment overflowing with books and light, the comfortable life my parents had built for us. My father, Dr. Hartley Miles

, over the comfortable, academic life I was born into. I remembered his hungry eyes,

ring of Grayson' s phone. He fumbled for it, his ey

egaining a semblance of control, though it w

chitect of so much of my suffering. She was always the puppeteer, pulling Grayson' s strings

n' s voice, muffled now, as he argued with Kiera. I didn' t wait to hear more. I flew up the creaking stairs, my old injuries screaming in

itant, then retreating. He was gone. He'

confused. He had the journal. And Kiera, his loyal accomplice, was alread

kness. His inability to truly trust, his need to control. He would pick apart eve

he beginning. T