The Divorce That Brought Us Back novel Chapter 147

Felix Hart's ongoing script had been revised and expanded countless times. The storyline had evolved from an absurd meet-cute involving underwear to a heartfelt bonding session over rescuing a stray dog, slowly shifting their character dynamic into a tense 'more than friends, less than lovers' territory.

Just as they were struggling to manufacture the perfect romantic tension for the next plot twist.

Providence struck. Felix's mother, Penelope Hart, had swung by his apartment last week. During a casual chat, she discovered that Jasmine Smith was actually a former junior piano champion.

Without missing a beat, the eccentric Penelope generously funded a grand piano to be delivered to their set as a prop.

Jasmine immediately penned a fresh scene centered entirely around the instrument.

In the final cut, Jasmine was filmed from behind. Seated gracefully at the bench, her posture immaculate, her fingers flew across the keys in a fiercely passionate classical arrangement.

The camera then cut to Felix, who was facing the lens, leaning casually against the back of her piano bench. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a flimsy folding tray, he aggressively slurped a cheap bowl of instant ramen, bobbing his head dramatically to the elegant symphony behind him.

The bold caption slapped across the screen read: [Any woman who marries me doesn't get a seat at the dinner table. She only exists to provide my soundtrack.]

In just three days, the clip had amassed a staggering 540,000 likes, 20,000 comments, and 70,000 shares.

Everyone assumed Felix's brand of chaos was wild enough.

No one expected Jasmine to be the true master of stirring up digital outrage.

The comment section was an absolute warzone.

[Excuse me, since when did my future wife marry a scrub like you?]

[Are you done exploiting her for views yet? I'm pulling the Bentley around to take my queen home.]

[Bro is just broke and didn't want to share his three-dollar ramen with a literal goddess.]

[Exactly. You belong in the dirt where the trash goes, and she belongs on a velvet throne.]

...

The internet lived for toxic outrage and absurd parasocial relationships.

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