The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 532

Chapter 262-1

The warm, lighthearted chatter settles over the kitchen like a soft quilt, but as the plates are set aside and the wine glasses drain lower, a quiet gloom slowly creeps back over my corner of the

island.

The contrast between Willow’s quiet hope and my own shattering reality feels like a physica

bruise.

Hearing about Stitch’s small steps toward vulnerability and Willow’s patience with his heart

–

only highlights the vast, terrifying abyss sitting between Locke and me.

Stitch is cautious about letting someone in, but Locke doesn’t even remember there was a door to

open.

I sit staring into the dark, swirling depths of my tea, completely withdrawn. Watching Willow talk about Stitch – about his quiet devotion, his willingness to be touched, the way he lets her into his guarded space – makes the hollow, aching grief in my own chest throb with a sharp envy.

I pull the fleece blanket tighter around my shoulders, my chin sinking into my collar, feeling small and utterly marooned while my own life feels like it’s being erased in slow motion. The warmth of the kitchen seems to recede, replaced by the ghost of the cold, metallic air from the clubhouse hallway yesterday.

Willow sets her wine glass down, her dark eyes locking onto my downcast face. She reaches across the granite, her silver rings clinking softly as she covers my hand.

“You’re floating away from us, Zara. Your spirit is sitting in a cold, dark place right now. Tell us where you went.”

I swallow hard, looking up from my mug, my eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I saw him yesterday. At the clubhouse. Near Dad’s office.”

Jade takes a sharp sip of her Cabernet, setting the glass down with a firm thud. “How was he?” “He looked terrible,” I say honestly. “Bruised. Stitches across his temple. He’s forced himself out of bed because he can’t stand sitting still, but he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes.”

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, my chin trembling slightly as I lean forward, curling into myself.

“He was polite,” I say, the word burning my tongue like acid. “So horribly polite. He asked me about my health. He asked about the baby. He looked at me like I was a math problem he couldn’t solve, or a high–priority asset he was legally obligated to protect.”

“Because his brain is trying to build a bridge out of dry air, Zara. He knows who you are on paper. He saw the photo in his penthouse, and his honor is eating him alive because he feels the weight of what he’s supposed to feel, but the wires are cut.”

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