The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 112

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The heavy, unrelenting knocks hammered through Christian's sluggish consciousness like a sledgehammer. He jolted awake. His first sensation was a splitting ache echoing inside his skull, followed by a profound, agonizing soreness in his muscles—as if he had been pushed past the point of exhaustion, torn apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.

What the hell happened?

He forced his heavy eyelids open, his vision blurring for several seconds before finally sharpening. A familiar ceiling. The minimalist chandelier. He was in his own master bedroom.

Memories of the previous night surfaced like turbulent waves through thick fog, churning with vague flashes and blistering fragments. Hosting Klaus Hilti at The Zenith... He had drank quite a bit, right? Then an unbearable dizziness had hit him, along with an unnatural, stifling heat... Lyra had brought him home... and then...

He instinctively turned his head to look beside him.

His breath hitched, coming to a dead stop.

Lyra was lying next to him. Her deep chestnut hair was a messy tangle across the pillow, damp strands clinging to her flushed forehead and cheek. Her eyes were closed, wet tear tracks seemingly clinging to her long lashes. She slept fitfully, her brows drawn together in a display of profound vulnerability and the utter exhaustion of having been thoroughly claimed. The thin sheet was draped just beneath her breasts, exposing soft shoulders marred by vivid, dark-red marks of passion—some even bearing the faint impression of teeth. One slender arm rested outside the covers, decorated with suspicious bruises that looked exactly like the aftermath of a punishing grip.

Christian's stomach dropped, a sudden chill rushing up his spine. He ripped the covers off himself—he was completely bare. Across his defined chest and core, aside from the debilitating hangover, were unmistakable signs of a violent encounter. Several long, thin scratches raked down his abs, stinging with a quiet throb.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The knocking resumed, more frantic this time, demanding an answer and completely shattering the suffocating silence of the room.

Even with his memory fractured, his physical exhaustion and the stark reality on the sheets told the whole story. After more than three years, he had been with Lyra again... and in such a messy, almost shameful manner.

What made his chest tighten the most was the unbidden image that crashed into his mind the instant he grasped reality—Evelyn. The woman he had divorced, the woman who was probably sleeping peacefully in her own apartment right now.

A sharp, utterly absurd sense of filth and betrayal seized him by the throat. They were divorced. She had been the one to leave... So why, staring at the sleeping Lyra and picturing his reckless abandonment the night before, did he feel like he had cheated on Evelyn?

The very thought was as pathetic as it was laughable. If Evelyn knew what was going through his head, she'd probably just shoot him an icy glare. Or worse, Madeline Thorne, her fiercely protective best friend, would tear into him: "Have some shame, Christian! Acting like you were ever a saint to begin with!"

It was true. He had a history with Lyra. Even during the early, frigid years of his marriage to Evelyn, he hadn't been entirely celibate. But this... this felt entirely different. He couldn't pinpoint why, but this chaotic night felt like a filthy smear of mud, dragged viciously across a corner of his heart he had only just begun trying to scrub clean.