The Ex-Wife's Redemption: A Love Reborn Chapter 268

In fact, I could distinguish between Henry and Sam perfectly well.

Sam was gentle, eternally optimistic, radiating warmth like summer sunshine. Henry was cold to his core, the kind of chill that penetrated into one's marrow. One icy glare from him was enough to send shivers down your spine.

I had once suspected they might be twins.

Years ago, I had asked Harper about it, and she had laughed, shaking her head. "How could that be possible? I raised Sam with my own hands. If he had a brother, I would know better than anyone."

I accepted this explanation: on a planet with billions of people, some faces are bound to be duplicated.

So I decided to love Henry for who he truly was.

But Henry's heart only ever belonged to Isabella. After trying for so long, I finally grew tired and chose to let go.

Without another word, Henry stood and left the room. Just like that. No confrontation, no arguments—just the soft click of the door.

I lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Part of me wanted to call him back, to explain that it wasn't what he thought. Yes, Henry had initially reminded me of Sam—that was undeniable.

But as time passed, I fell in love with him, I knew clearly that I had fallen in love with Henry Harding.

None of that mattered now. We were divorced. Ancient history.

I tried to fall back asleep, but something kept bothering me. Henry had rushed out wearing only his pajamas and the hotel's flimsy slippers.

It was freezing outside—Denver nights were bitter in early spring. He had traveled across the country with Billy just to see me, and I had driven him away in anger.

Damn it.

His wallet and ID were still in his coat pocket. Without them, he couldn't even check into another room. I grabbed my phone and called him. No answer.

Cursing under my breath, I grabbed Henry's coat and headed out to find him.

The night clerk pointed me in the direction he'd gone, and I followed, scanning the empty streets.

I spotted him almost immediately—even in ordinary pajamas sitting on a random street bench, he looked like he was shooting a fashion spread.

Only Henry Harding could make sleepwear look like haute couture.

He sat there elegantly, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a cigarette with practiced grace. Even from a distance, I could see his furrowed brow.

The path between us wasn't long; I reached him quickly.

"What are you doing here?" Henry asked.

I extended his coat toward him. "This is yours."

If I wasn't worried about him getting sick and infecting Billy, I wouldn't have bothered.

Henry's face darkened as he snapped, "Don't think I'll forgive you just because you brought me a piece of clothing!"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Had I said anything about seeking forgiveness?

"Mr. Harding," I said evenly, "I know your ID and wallet are in this coat pocket. I brought them specifically for you. I'm heading back now. You can use these to book yourself the presidential suite or whatever."

I didn't understand why he was so angry, but his expression was downright bizarre. Fearing he might be brewing some new form of trouble, I tossed the coat at him and turned to leave.

I'd taken exactly one step when his hand clamped around my wrist. He stood up, towering over me.

He extinguished his cigarette meticulously between his fingers, tossing it forcefully into a nearby trash can. His eyes bore into mine from above.

"You're concerned about me?" he asked, his voice softening slightly.

My face burned. "I only came out here because I was afraid you'd catch cold," I clarified hastily. "And more importantly, that you'd pass it to Billy if you got sick."

Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but vanished so quickly.

At least I hadn't completely abandoned him—I'd come looking, hadn't I? Compared to all the things he'd done to me, I was being downright charitable.

He was clearly disappointed, swallowing the bitterness rising in his throat.

After a long pause, he finally spoke:

"I'll take it as concern for me." Without waiting for my response, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the hotel.

"A substitute?" Henry's thoughts were clear as day.

Sophia, one day you'll truly fall in love with me!

While we dealt with our personal drama on the streets of Denver, the Harding household was in turmoil.

Richard had been meeting with lawyers to discuss divorce proceedings, traveling frequently to convince Catherine's parents to agree to the separation.

His constant absence had given Grace the perfect opportunity to visit her mother regularly.

Catherine had been living a miserable existence in that basement.

Richard, still harboring some marital affection, had at least provided her with heating equipment. After more than a month of confinement, Catherine's mental state had begun to deteriorate.

The family doctor had advised Richard: "You shouldn't keep your wife locked up any longer. If this continues, I'm concerned she may develop serious psychological issues."

Richard had completely ignored this warning.

When Grace saw her mother's pale, haunted expression, her heart broke.

"Mom," she pleaded, "why don't you just apologize to Dad? Kneel down, beg his forgiveness, promise never to see that man again. Wouldn't that be better?"

Grace had only heard about her mother's affair with Oliver through a passing comment from her father.

Learning that her mother had been unfaithful had shattered her worldview.

Even Grace had never juggled two men simultaneously—she'd always cleanly broken off one relationship before starting another.

Discovering that her mother had maintained a years-long affair with Oliver had destroyed her moral compass.

"Mom, say something," Grace begged. "Wouldn't it be better to stop seeing that man and focus on our family? Even if Dad divorces you, you still have me and my brother. We can take care of you!"

Catherine, her eyes previously unfocused, suddenly seemed triggered by something in Grace's words. She rushed to the door, gripping the bars as she laughed maniacally.

"Hahaha!"

"Do you really think he's your brother?"

"He's not! He's not your biological brother! Technically, he's your cousin—your aunt's son!"

"Your aunt died shortly after giving birth to him."

"Your brother wasn't even a month old when his mother died."

"Do you want to know how she died?"

As she spoke, a disturbing light flickered in her eyes.

Grace fell back, terrified by her mother's manic behavior. "How did my brother's mother—my aunt—die?" she asked cautiously.

Catherine smiled and put a finger to her lips. "Shh!" she whispered. "You don't need to know that." Then, abruptly shifting topics: "Grace, my dear daughter, please help me get out of here. I can't stand being locked up anymore."

Whatever memory had surfaced seemed to sharpen Catherine's focus.

She grabbed Grace's hand tightly, pleading desperately. "Grace, I'm begging you. Help your mother. Steal the key and let me out of here."

Grace stared at her, wide-eyed, before reluctantly agreeing: "I'll try my best. But don't blame me if I can't get the key, okay?"

Everyone else might abandon Catherine, but Grace couldn't—this was her mother, after all.

A few nights later, when everyone in the Harding mansion was deep asleep, a ghost-like figure emerged from the basement.

The shadowy form moved through the house with practiced familiarity, quickly making her way out of the basement. The figure raced through the main gates and headed to a public phone booth, trembling as she dialed a number.

Soon after, a black Range Rover appeared, stopping beside Catherine.

Oliver sat in the car, a cigar between his fingers, gazing at the shivering woman by the roadside.

"Catherine, what happened to you?" he asked, concerned. "Get in the car, quickly."

Catherine didn't waste a second, practically jumping into the vehicle.

"Oliver, that bastard Richard locked me in the basement," she sobbed. "He starved me, wouldn't let me sleep properly. I hate him!"

Oliver tossed her a clean towel. "Don't worry. I'll make that old fool Richard pay for this."

Only after reaching Oliver's long-term hotel suite did Catherine's frantically beating heart begin to calm down.

Lying in the bathtub, enjoying a bubble bath, her entire being seemed to transform.

Just as she stood up, still in the tub, Oliver rushed in and embraced her eagerly, his hands roaming over her mature body.

"You've lost weight, but your breasts are firmer," he observed. "That dog Richard didn't touch you, did he?"

Catherine didn't resist, instead pressing herself against him. "Of course not. You know he never touches me anyway."

"He only has eyes for his dead wife. How could he remember he has a second wife?"

"To be honest, even if he wanted to touch me, I wouldn't let him. My body belongs only to you, Oliver."

Oliver laughed heartily, slapping her bottom firmly. "Good! Then let your Oliver show you some proper love!"

Soon they were rolling on the bed, naked in each other's arms.

What they didn't know was that a crowd of reporters had gathered outside the hotel room. Somehow, the door was unlocked from the outside, and reporters swarmed in, cameras flashing at the entangled bodies on the bed.

Terrified, the pair quickly separated, covering their naked bodies with the sheets.

Catherine hid her face against Oliver's chest, too afraid to be photographed.

Oliver was startled but quickly regained his composure. He pointed at the reporters, shouting: "Who let you in? Which media outlet do you work for? I'll sue each and every one of you!"

"This is my private room! How dare you trespass!"

Just then, Richard walked in, impeccably dressed. He smiled coolly at the couple on the bed.

"I let them in," he said simply.