Resent Reject Regret by Aqua Summers novel Chapter 567

Chapter 567 Of Course, I Thought Too Highly of Myself

The nonchalance crushed the emotional storm he himself had created in Deirdre. Balling

her hands into fists, she willed herself to suppress the urge not to deck her hand across

Brendan’s face.

“Your conscience? After all the sins you’ve committed? After all the lives you’ve ruined?

And all you get is your wimpy conscience burning a hole in your non-existent soul!? Your

conscience is worthless!”

There was something unreadable and nebulous in Brendan’s black eyes, but he

managed to maintain his caustic tongue. “All that is in the past, McKinnon, so can you

stop yapping about it? What do you want me to do? Scrap my knees begging you for

forgiveness? Grow up.”

“Grow… up?” Deirdre could almost see black spots dancing in front of her eyes. She

could not stop herself from sneering. “I guess you’re right. I need to grow up and stop

being so naive. How could I possibly demand the great and mighty Mr. Brighthall to beg

for my forgiveness? How could I commit the sin of making his conscience slap him on

his wrist!? Oh God, of course! I thought too highly of myself!”

Brendan turned his head sideways. He could not seem to come up with even more

acerbic things to one-up her. Maybe, his fever had gotten severe enough that it was

impeding his thoughts.

Deirdre managed to pull herself out of her rage to ask, “And what about the spaghetti

you wanted me to make? Did you dream of it?”

“Yes.” Something twinkled in his eyes.

Deirdre let the conversation die. Only after a coughing fit seized Brendan, she was

reminded of his medicine. She moved her stiffened body and took it from the table.

Passing it to him, she instructed, “Eat it.”

Before Brendan could enjoy his shock, she added, “Eat it and rest early. I want you to

gain enough strength to proceed with our divorce.”

Any last ounce of hope he had died in his eyes.

He should have known this was what awaited him. His head made his thoughts feel like

a boiling pot of glue swirling inside his skull. Something was choking him from his throat,

making simple conversation way too difficult.

He swallowed the pills, lay down, and sat up again. “Where are you sleeping?”

“I’ll sit,” Deirdre replied flatly.