The Unwanted Wife's Return (Ex-Husband Wants Me Back) novel Chapter 322

I Won’t Beg Anymore 

MARY’S POV: 

The man in the leather jacket looked at the hidden photograph in my hands, then at my face, then back at the photograph. 

His expression shifted. 

The lazy amusement drained away first, replaced by something that looked almost like confusion. Then the confusion hardened into something else-something that might have been concern, or guilt, or the uncomfortable realization that he had miscalculated. 

“I should go,” he said. 

And then he left. 

Just like that. No apology. No explanation. No offer to help or stay or even close the door behind him. He turned on his heel and walked out of my house, his expensive shoes clicking against the marble floor until the sound faded into nothing. 

The front door swung shut with a soft click. 

I stood there in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by broken glass and scattered photographs, and I didn’t even have time to care. Because the second he was gone-the second the silence settled back into the house like dust settling on old furniture-I heard movement upstairs. 

Footsteps, light and unhurried. 

I looked up just as Vesper appeared at the top of the staircase. 

She was even more beautiful in the morning light than she had been in the dim glow of the guest room lamp. Her dark hair was brushed now, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She wore a robe-pale pink, expensive-and her feet were bare, her toenails painted a deep, glossy red. 

She looked like she belonged here. 

That was the thought that cut through me, sharp and cold and undeniable. She looked like she belonged in my house, on my staircase, in my life. 

“Oh,” she said, her voice soft and slightly accented, something European, maybe, or the kind of accent that money bought rather than geography. “You’re up.” 

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My hands were still full of broken glass and hidden photographs, and my throat was closed tight around words that wouldn’t come. 

Vesper descended the stairs slowly, one step at a time, her bare feet silent on the carpeted treads. She didn’t seem to notice the tension radiating from my body. Or if she did, she didn’t care. 

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