The Ex-Wife's Unforgiving Revenge

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he stole. The living, breathing symbol of my ruin. How could I look at him without seeing the past, without feeling the phantom pain of ever

bedded in my heart. No amount of love, no measure of maternal i

Always." It was a convenient truth, a shield. My d

emed to want to argue, to plead, but the words died in his throat. He

s. I gathered Ida' s things, the few worn toys and clothes we possessed. We were moving. Agai

nt, damning testament. He would find it. He wou

e. And because I needed to be seen struggle. For him. For everyone who believed the lies. But finding work was a cruel joke. My past, the w

rk I knew he' d find me doing.

e scent of stale grease clinging to my clothes. My hands, once delicate, skilled a

the back door creaked open. A shadow fell over me. I didn' t need to look up

ice was strained, laced wi

miliar pain shot through my left side, the lasting reminder of a brutal beating

face. "What are you doing here? And... your hands. What happened to your hands?" He took a step clo

he long nights, working two, sometimes three, minimum-wage jobs just to buy formula and pay rent. I remembered the cold stares, the whispered judgments. I remembe

yson? I' m working. Something you wouldn' t understand." I pushed past him, my body screaming

e cologne, faint traces of something vaguely familiar from long ago-filled my senses. It was a warmth I yearn

remembered the last time he held me, not in tenderne

the cold, tiled floor of that isolated mansion, the one he' d called our "sanctuary

with malicious satisfaction. "She' s a disgrace, G

Especially one whose family is already ruined." He' d laughed then, a chilling, triumphant sound. "And besides, we have proof now. Proo

er didn' t just die in a car crash. He was running from the police, trying to escape the accusations.

own hand because of their lies? I' d lunged at Kiera, a prima

. I' d slumped to the floor, coughing, blood filling my mouth. "You' re carrying my child, Jillian! You

this on yourself," he' d repeated, again and again, like a mantra. When the pain became unbearable, when I felt the life draining from me, only then did he call fo

ifying memory. Grayson' s hand was on my forehead. My he

h genuine concern. His eyes were wide, confus

g to an old, worn doll, her sanctuary. She'd accidentally knocked over a small, brown leather journal. It

e elegant script, the familiar handwriting. His sister' s handwriting. He picked

, his eyes burning with a grief so profound it twisted his features into a mask of pure agony. He let out a strangled sob, a