Chapter 138 Abandoned Wife I came home with a heavy heart. The kind that sits in your chest like a soaked towel—heavy, cold, even almost impossible to wring out. Mom was divorcing her shitty husband because, as she said, “I want to die a free woman.” Apparently, she’d spent her marriage feeling shackled and suffocated by his every command. Did I feel pity for her? Maybe a little. Did I believe her? Not one bit. I remember her all too well. Her laughter, her sequined dresses, her red lipstick, the smell of whiskey on her breath as she hosted the monsters she called friends. She wasn’t some docile wife crushed and treated poorly by a tyrant. She was very much in love with Julius. Plus, she wanted to make up for sleeping with his equally shitty brother and birthing me. Mom was never oppressed. She was just a coward. She chose to survive by pretending everything was fine. Chose to protect her reputation and rich friends instead of her daughter. She’d sip champagne beside the men who hurt me and call it loyalty. But I guess when people are dying or breaking apart, we’re supposed to rewrite their stories. Pretend they were saints. Pretend the scars they left on us were lessons, not wounds. It’s misleading. It’s exhausting. And right now, it’s putting me in a difficult position. Because her “final wish” before she goes through with the divorce is that I ask Roman for help. Or more specifically, ask Penelope’s help. Fucking fantastic. I stare at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes past twelve. Midnight. I’ve been waiting for him like some abandoned wife who doesn’t know when to give up. The house is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your ears. My phone lies face-down on the table. I keep glancing at it even though no one’s texting me. And I don’t know why I even bothered changing into this robe. Maybe because I wanted to look presentable when he came home. Maybe because I wanted him to notice me. Maybe because I was eager to see if he's still affected by me. I tug one side of the robe down from my shoulder. Then immediately pull it back up. That looks too desperate. I’m not that woman. Not anymore. The seconds drag. I pick at my nails. Then I sing loudly to drum out the noise in the silence. My heart keeps skipping between fear and panic. Who knows if the man even plans on coming home tonight. Just then—I finally heard it. The sound of his car pulling into the driveway. My pulse kicks up so fast I can hear it in my throat. The door slams. Then footsteps follow. I sit up straighter on the couch, tucking my legs under me. My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my robe and fix my hair even though no one’s watching. The front door unlocks. I can hear his voice—low, slow, tired. He’s on the phone. The door opens and Roman walks in, eyes on the ground, one hand still pressed to his ear. His tie is gone. The first three buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks drained—like someone who’s been arguing with life itself all day. He doesn’t even notice me sitting in the dark. He walks past me like a ghost passing through. But I can't let him. “Roman?” The word escapes before I can stop it. It sounds small. Too hopeful. Too desperate. He stops mid-step, turns, and squints toward me. The room is dark—only a bit illuminated by the light from the hallway where he stands, and he blinks a few times as if trying to make out my face. “Sorry,” he says after ending the call. His voice is rough. “I didn’t see you there.” I force a little smile. “No, it’s fine. The lights are off. That’s why.” He nods absently and takes a breath, still standing halfway between the hallway and the living room. Then, in that calm, measured tone of his, he says, “About my father’s birthday—I won’t be attending. But don't worry, I’ll have someone pick you up and take you there.” It’s too polite. Too rehearsed. Like we’re strangers in an arranged marriage. And I hate it. “Actually,” I say quickly, “I’m not going either. I don’t want to go anymore.” He studies me for a second, his expression one of surprise. “Alright. If that’s your wish.” He starts to move past me again. “I’ve been waiting for you,” I blurt out before he can leave. Then immediately regret it the next moment. The words come out too fast, too full. Too horny.His eyes flick down briefly—to my robe. Then back up to my face. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not that, Roman. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I just meant you came home late and I—was wondering where you've been all day.” He sighs, deep and tired, like he’s exhaling the weight of the world. “Savannah, I’ve had a really long day. I’m too exhausted to do this with you right now. Good night.” He turns away, heading for the stairs. “I’m not trying to nag you or start a fight,” I say quickly. He stops. His shoulders rise and fall once before he turns his head slightly. “Oh yeah? Then what is this?” I swallow hard. “I just need your help. My mom does, actually. Or, well—Penelope’s help.” That gets his attention. He faces me fully now, still distant but listening. “Go on.” “She wants to divorce Julius.” No reaction. No raised eyebrow, no surprise, nothing. His expression stays calm, normal. Like I just told him that it was midnight.“Alright,” he says finally. “Text me the hospital address. I’ll forward it to Penny.” I nod, relief and disappointment tangling in my chest. He starts to leave, but pauses. “A piece of advice,” he says quietly. “Knowing the kind of man her soon-to-be ex-husband is, she’ll need all the support she can get. Tell her to transfer her assets to you or your siblings. Anything she owns—house, shares, even her jewelry. Do it quickly.” This is the most he’s said to me in four days. Four days of silence. Four days of walking around each other like ghosts haunting the same house. “Savannah, are you listening to me?” I nod. “Yes.” “Do you understand what I'm saying?” He asks like he's speaking to a child. I shake my head. “Not exactly.” “He’s going to push for a fault-based divorce — adultery. And if he wins, he could walk away with half of everything she owns. Especially if he argues she used joint funds during the affair.” I should be relieved he’s even speaking. And I am. But then—he keeps talking.“Penny’s handled similar cases before,” he says, voice steady. “Where the husband demands a share of everything on the grounds of infidelity. Since Julius knows about your mother and your uncle—she needs to act fast.” My breath catches. He’s still talking, but his voice fades into the background. I can’t hear him anymore. Because what he just said— ‘Since Julius knows about your mother and your uncle…’ My uncle. The words spin in my head. He just mentioned the affair that brought me here. He said it casually like it’s public knowledge. Like it’s nothing. Except I never told him. I haven't gotten the chance to. The eviction notice completely wiped it off my mind. I never told him that my mother had an affair with her husband’s brother. Or that I was the result of it. That the man I called “uncle” was actually my biological father. I never said a word. So how the hell does he know? Roman’s still standing there, still talking about legal steps and asset protection, and I’m staring at him like I’m seeing him for the first time.He’s so composed. So calm. Like he’s not aware he just cracked open a secret that’s been buried my entire life. I don’t interrupt him. I just watch him. Partially shocked and partially afraid. Afraid that if I confronted him, I might just lose him forever. And I don't think I can handle that. His jaw tightens slightly as he speaks. The exhaustion in his voice is real, but there’s something else there too—a flicker of knowing. Of calculation. He finally glances back at me. “Savannah, did you hear me?” I nod numbly. “Yeah. I heard.” “Good.” He gives a small nod and moves toward the hallway. “Text me the details. I’ll handle the rest.” He disappears up the stairs. The sound of his footsteps fades. The light from the hallway flicks off. And I sit there, alone again, staring at the empty staircase before whispering to no one… “How do you know that, Roman?”