The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 398

The streets of Paris basked in the lazy glow of the afternoon sun.

Lyra sat slumped in the back of the taxi, leaning against the cold glass of the window, looking entirely hollowed out. The sharp, rhythmic pain throbbing from her throat served as a brutal reminder of the nightmare she had just survived.

The driver was a French man in his fifties with a meticulously groomed mustache. He kept stealing glances at her through the rearview mirror.

"Madame," he finally spoke, his English heavily accented with a thick French roll. "It's a beautiful day for a rendezvous, no?"

Lyra blinked, too disoriented to process the question.

The driver chuckled, flashing a grin dripping with the signature romantic ambiguity of the French.

"I saw you leaving that apartment building," he continued, his tone light and playful. "Your steps were a bit unsteady, and your cheeks were beautifully flushed. You were visiting a lover, yes?"

Lyra's face instantly went rigid.

She opened her mouth to snap a denial, but the words died on her tongue.

The driver kept chatting happily. "We French men understand. Ah, amour! It is what it is. My wife and I, thirty years together, and every time I see her, my heart still races like I'm twenty."

He paused, catching her eye in the mirror, his gaze dipping meaningfully toward her neck.

"But Madame," he added with a wink. "Next time, perhaps tell your lover to be a bit more gentle. Right there..."

He tapped a finger against his own throat.

Lyra froze in sheer horror.

Her hand shot up, her fingertips brushing against the rough, inflamed skin on her neck.

It burned.

She frantically tore open her designer handbag and ripped out her compact mirror.

The woman staring back at her was a ghost—deathly pale with red, swollen eyes.

But the most glaring detail was the violent, angry red bruise wrapping around her throat—stretching from her jawline all the way down to her collarbone, standing out starkly against her pale skin.

It was the unmistakable imprint of brutal, crushing fingers.

Glaring and impossible to hide.

Lyra's hands began to shake violently.

The compact nearly slipped from her grasp.

The driver's cheerful words echoed mockingly in her ears. "Visiting a lover, yes?" "Tell your lover to be a bit more gentle."

Every single syllable felt like a serrated blade of pure irony tearing into her.

She snapped the compact shut with a vicious click, her manicured nails digging deep into her palms.

That bastard.

That absolute monster.

She wanted to kill him with her own two hands.

"Madame?" The driver's concerned voice drifted back. "Are you alright?"

Lyra sucked in a harsh breath, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Is there a boutique selling scarves up ahead? Please pull over."

The driver nodded agreeably.

"Of course, just down the street."

—

Five minutes later, the taxi idled outside an upscale boutique.

Lyra marched inside and grabbed the first silk scarf she saw. It was a soft pastel pink, just wide enough to obscure the hideous bruising on her throat.

She didn't care about the price or the style; she threw her card on the counter and marched out.

Back in the safety of the cab, she tightly wrapped the silk around her neck and checked the mirror.

The bruises were hidden.

But the venomous hatred boiling in her chest was impossible to conceal.

The taxi merged back into traffic.

Lyra leaned her head back against the seat and squeezed her eyes shut.

The horrifying memories played on a relentless loop in her mind—

Leon's iron grip crushing her windpipe, the terrifying sensation of suffocating to death, the arrogant smirk on his face as he casually blew smoke at her.