After I left, the twin Alphas went crazy novel Chapter 35

His face was still bruised, the marks of Ethan’s fists fresh on his once-handsome features. Despite the visible pain, he managed a crooked smile.

“Hey,” he said, leaning on the window with a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, honey. I was impulsive the other day.” His voice was casual, as if nothing had happened. “Look, I just got out of the hospital and wanted to apologize. Just forgive me, alright?”

I stared at him, my stomach churning. How could he stand there, bruised and battered, and still act like I’d just forgive him?

I pretended not to hear and pressed the button to try to close the window.

I knew exactly why he was here, playing nice. He saw me as his golden ticket—his path to power and wealth, a rich girlfriend who’d do anything for him.

He was never going to let go of that, not until he got everything he wanted: to marry me, become Alpha of Stardustpack, and sink his claws into my life.

But I remembered what came after.

In our previous life, once the vows were exchanged, Ryan’s true self had surfaced.

The first time I noticed it was subtle, a drunken night when he muttered with disdain, “It’s just that your family has a bit of money, and you like to bully others. What’s the big deal?”

The insults would evolve into shouts, and the shouts into something darker—his fists.

Every night he came home drunk, he would rage, calling me spoiled, worthless.

Then he’d hit me.

I still remember the stinging blows, the bruises blooming across my skin. He never touched my face, though—no, that was too obvious. He was too cunning to let Ethan, or anyone else, notice.

The next morning, he would find me crumpled on the floor, barely alive. His tears would flow, crocodile tears, as he knelt before me, begging for forgiveness.

And like a fool, I always gave it to him.

I wore long sleeves to cover the bruises and begged Ethan to help Ryan rise to power. I thought Ryan’s apologies were sincere. How naïve I had been.

Looking back now, I realized it was all part of his sick game. He loved seeing me broken—physically and emotionally.

He wasn’t drunk when he hit me. He just pretended to be, so he could get away with it.

After all, what kind of “drunken” man deliberately avoids leaving marks on your face? He wanted to hurt me, but not enough for anyone to notice.