Alpha's Regret After the Divorce by Christina novel Chapter 173

The old butler’s hands moved with a steady, practiced grace as he carefully wrapped the bandage around my throbbing ankle. I kept my expression neutral, determined not to reveal any sign of the sharp pain that shot up my leg with every gentle touch. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice how the elderly man’s eyes kept flickering toward my face, a strange blend of worry and a faint, almost hidden joy shimmering within their depths.

The room felt stifling, despite its generous size. Rocco remained by the window, his back turned to us, his posture stiff and unyielding like a statue carved from stone. The silence between us stretched taut, thick and uncomfortable, as if it were a tangible weight pressing down on my chest. I seized the quiet moment to take in my surroundings, mentally noting every possible escape route, any object that could serve as a weapon—anything that might aid me if—or rather, when—I needed to break free.

My eyes wandered, inadvertently catching sight of something on the far wall that made my heart tighten painfully. Amid the expensive paintings and ornate decorations hung a photograph of Rocco and me from three years ago. We were smiling then, his arm possessively draped around my waist, my head resting gently against his shoulder. I quickly tore my gaze away, unwilling to let those bittersweet memories surface and claw at my resolve.

“This should ease the pain,” the butler said softly, offering me a glass of water along with two small pills. “The swelling will go down by morning.”

I accepted the glass but held the pills in my palm, eyeing them with suspicion. After three years of rigorous training, I knew better than to swallow anything handed to me in an enemy’s home without caution.

The butler seemed to sense my hesitation. “Three years,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve hoped every day since then that I might see you again, Luna.”

The use of that name made me flinch inwardly. I was no one’s Luna anymore—certainly not Rocco’s.

“You may leave us now,” Rocco’s deep voice cut through the moment like a knife. He finally turned from the window, his face unreadable, expression cold and distant. “Make sure we aren’t disturbed.”

The old man gave a slight bow, casting one last complicated look in my direction before closing the door quietly behind him.

Rocco pulled out a chair and sat down across from me, leaving enough space between us to seem non-threatening, yet his piercing blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

“Am I your prisoner?” I asked bluntly, still clutching the untouched pills in my hand.

He shook his head slowly. “No. But we need to talk—before your… team finds this place.”

Cautiously, I took it. The image showed a woman unmistakably Lyra, walking down an unfamiliar street. The timestamp in the corner read two years after her supposed death.

“So she faked her death and ran,” I said, passing the photo back. “That doesn’t excuse her crimes.”

“Yes, but the question is why.” Rocco spread more documents across the coffee table between us. “Look at these.”

I leaned forward slightly, scanning what appeared to be medical records. The header indicated a psychiatric facility in a small town hundreds of miles away. The patient description matched Lyra’s characteristics, though the name was different. The diagnosis made me pause: “Severe delusional disorder, multiple personality disorder, prone to hallucinations.”

Rocco’s voice dropped even lower. “Lyra was… never quite right. Even as a child. But I protected her. I covered for her symptoms.”