Alpha's Regret After the Divorce by Christina novel Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Kira’s POV

The room felt thick with tension as I finally broke the silence, my voice barely steady but charged with a mix of hurt and anger. “So, in your expert opinion as ‘mother of the year,’ is everything my fault?” I asked, the words trembling on my lips.

Vanessa responded with a heavy sigh, the kind that suggested I was being utterly unreasonable. Her perfectly manicured hand moved smoothly over her designer blouse, as if brushing away an invisible crease, before she fixed me with a cold, condescending stare.

“Do you even understand what divorce means, Kira?” she shot back, her tone sharp and dismissive. “It means it’s finished. You have to stop meddling in Rocco and Kim’s relationship.”

Her words struck me like a blow to the chest. I had come here hoping for some form of reconciliation, perhaps a sliver of maternal comfort during what could be my final months, but instead, I was met with this harsh rejection.

“In a healthy relationship,” she continued, her voice adopting that practiced, self-assured tone of supposed wisdom, “there are only two people involved. Not three. Definitely not an ex—Luna—who refuses to accept reality.”

A fragile part of me cracked under the weight of her cruelty, but I clenched my jaw, refusing to give her the satisfaction of witnessing my break. Years of enduring pain had taught me how to swallow it down, how to mask it behind a tight smile that never quite reached my eyes.

“So that’s what I am to you,” I said softly, the bitter taste of copper flooding my mouth as I bit the inside of my cheek to keep control.

Before Vanessa could respond, Kim glided into our tense space, her arm linked casually with Rocco’s. Seeing her there, sharing the same striking features as me—it felt like a cruel, mocking joke. Same face, yet our fates couldn’t have been more different.

“Don’t be so hard on Kira, Vanessa,” Kim said with a smile that was all false warmth. “She’s still young. Making mistakes is normal at her age.”

Her patronizing tone twisted my stomach. Kim was literally only minutes older than me—we were twins—but she spoke as if she held decades more wisdom.

Vanessa straightened her shoulders, adopting the posture of righteous indignation. “I’m just trying to give her a clear explanation. I won’t allow her to disrupt your relationship any longer.”

A sharp pain twisted inside me, one that had nothing to do with my illness. I bit down hard on my tongue, tasting blood, but I refused to show any weakness. Not here. Not in front of them.

Unexpectedly, Rocco’s voice cut through the heavy silence, cold and clipped. “She’s not interfering. I’m the one who chose to take care of her.”

His words should have brought some comfort, but the clinical way he said “take care of” made it sound like I was a problem to be managed, not a person to be loved.

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed at him. “You don’t need to lie for her. She’s been a manipulator since childhood.”

The accusation hit me harder than I anticipated. Memories surged back—painful, vivid moments I had fought so hard to bury.

I was seven years old, lying in bed with a thermometer in my mouth, pretending to be sick. I didn’t have a fever then, but I craved my mother’s attention desperately. She’d been gone for days, lost in parties and social events, leaving me in the care of nannies who changed as often as the seasons.

That night, after she left again, I slipped outside and sat for hours in the cold water of our garden fountain, determined to actually fall ill—to earn the attention I so desperately sought. By morning, I had a real fever of 103.

“Yes,” I admitted softly. “I did pretend to be sick once. Because it was the only way to make you notice me.”

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