The Ex-Wife's Redemption: A Love Reborn Chapter 230

I carefully examined the injured child's face, feeling guilty despite not knowing what had happened. The wound wasn't large—about an inch long, positioned right below his eye.

When I realized that if the injury had been just slightly higher, it could have damaged his eye, a chill ran down my spine.

The boy cowered behind his mother, his eyes filled with fear of Billy.

"Mommy, mommy, I'm scared! Make them go away!" he whimpered, clutching his mother's skirt.

Seeing the wound on the child's face, my first reaction was to apologize for Billy's behavior—hitting was wrong, regardless of the reason. But before I could speak, the woman launched into a vicious tirade.

"Who do you think you are?" she spat, her face contorted with anger. "This isn't over, absolutely not over!"

She pointed at Billy with her jewel-covered finger. "Hitting people is a crime. I'm going to make sure your little brat ends up in juvenile detention! If you won't discipline him, someone else will have to!" She snorted with disgust. "Fighting at such a young age—he's clearly destined to be a prison regular!"

Her elegant clothes and expensive jewelry clearly indicated this woman was either wealthy or influential.

Clearly, this situation wouldn't be resolved easily.

I didn't even have a chance to explain. She continued her verbal assault, each word more venomous than the last, insulting everything from my appearance to my child.

My patience finally snapped. "Are you done yet?" I interrupted. "Can you shut up for one minute?"

She absolutely hadn't bothered to understand what had happened! I knew my son—Billy wasn't the type to hit someone without provocation. Something must have happened to trigger this conflict.

Judging by this mother's behavior, I could guess her child probably wasn't well-behaved either.

My outburst momentarily stunned her into silence, but she quickly recovered, turning to the teacher with exaggerated outrage.

"I'm going to have them arrested!" she shrieked, her voice echoing through the small infirmary. "What kind of people are these? They attack my child, refuse to apologize, and then have the nerve to yell at me!" She fumbled for her phone. "I'm calling my husband right now. He'll have both of you thrown in jail. We'll see how tough you are then!"

I felt my headache intensifying. I had come here hoping to resolve the situation reasonably, but this woman was determined to escalate everything to the edge of control.

The teacher tried to intervene, but the woman shoved her aside. "Stay out of this!" she snarled. "Let me tell you—if I don't get satisfaction today, I'll report you too. The three of you can share a cell!"

As her insults grew increasingly vulgar, I covered Billy's ears. I didn't want him exposed to such filth.

"Your mouth is dirtier than a sewer," I snapped, glaring at her. "Watch what you say in front of children."

My retort clearly enraged her completely.

She screamed and lunged at me, her pudgy hands aiming for my hair. "You little bitch! I'll tear your mouth off!" she screamed, simultaneously trying to grab my hair and slap my face.

I wasn't going to let this woman assault me in front of my son. I grabbed her wrists, but she managed to seize my hair. We awkwardly grappled, knocking over everything in the small infirmary.

The small waiting room outside the infirmary quickly became a disaster zone.

The commotion finally prompted the school doctor to call the police.

Ten minutes later, Billy and I were escorted to a police car. The woman's husband had arrived—a stern-looking man in an expensive suit.

He guided his wife to their luxury car, following behind us to the nearest police station.

Through the police car window, I could see her in their car behind us, frantically trying to fix her disheveled hair while dramatically sobbing her story to her powerful husband.

"That bitch isn't getting away with this," she said loudly enough for her voice to be heard clearly.

"They both need to be locked up! No—prison isn't enough. I want them destroyed online too!"

Henry sat alone in his study, surrounded by documents needing his signature.

Because of his injured right arm, he was forced to sign with his left hand.

Since Henry couldn't go to the office, James had been dutifully bringing the paperwork to his home.

After finishing the day's required signatures, Henry opened the folder about Sam that James had delivered.

The details were sparse. According to the report, Sam Davis had died in the line of duty six years ago. The file didn't specify what mission he'd been on, only that he had made the ultimate sacrifice.

The timing matched perfectly with when Henry had first encountered Sophia.

"How deeply did Sophia love this man to attempt to die with him?" Henry wondered bitterly.

The more he read, the more painful the realization became.

If Sam hadn't died—if he'd lived—would Sophia have ever considered marrying Henry? Or would she have remained devoted to her childhood sweetheart?

"Sophia, am I just Sam's replacement to you?" The thought caused him immense pain.

As he stared at Sam's photograph, immersed in his pain, his phone rang.

James called to inform him that Sophia had been taken to a police station after a conflict at Billy's school.

Under normal circumstances, Henry wouldn't have hesitated—he would have rushed to her side immediately.

But anger clouded his judgment. Why should he help her? She only brought him pain. If she truly saw him as a replacement for her dead lover, why should he care what happened to her?

"Leave her alone," he told James coldly. "She's perfectly capable of handling herself." If Sophia was so independent and competent, let her solve her own problems.

At the police station, I was led to a quiet small room.

A female officer followed me in, her expression full of sympathy.

"Listen," she said in a low voice, "that woman you got into a fight with? Her husband has serious connections. People like us can't afford to cross people like them." She leaned closer. "Just apologize, pay some compensation, show a little remorse. We'll mediate, and this whole thing will blow over. Don't make this harder on yourself."

But I've always been stubborn—I'd rather break than bend.

Why should we apologize when we weren't in the wrong?

On the way to the police station, I had asked Billy why he hit the other boy. His answer shocked me: the child had called me a "gold-digger" and worse names that a six-year-old shouldn't even know, let alone repeat.

These weren't words a child would come up with on his own. He must have heard them from his parents, who clearly didn't mind discussing such things in front of children.

Since neither Billy nor I had done anything wrong, I refused to apologize.

The room contained a single bed. Billy was exhausted from the ordeal, so I helped him remove his coat and tucked him in. I sat beside him, gently stroking his hair as he fell asleep.

But watching my son curl up protectively, his face still stained with tears, doubt began to creep in. Even in sleep, his small shoulders trembled.

Had I made the right choice?

Did my so-called pride really have to put my child through this?