The Ex-Wife's Redemption: A Love Reborn Chapter 49

Henry sat in his study, staring at his phone with growing agitation. James's investigation results were thorough as always, but these findings were useless.

"No record of anyone named 'Sam' in Sophia's past relationships or significant connections," the report stated plainly. "Background check from five years ago shows no such individual in her social circle."

Henry clenched his jaw, remembering Sophia's sleeping form, remembering that tender smile on her face as she murmured that name in her sleep. Sam. The name tasted bitter in his mind. Before their marriage, he had investigated her entire life—every friend, every acquaintance, every potential rival had been carefully documented and assessed.

How had this "Sam" slipped through?

Movement from the kitchen caught his attention. Through the doorway, he could see Sophia's silhouette as she prepared dinner. Despite his anger, his eyes involuntarily traced her elegant curves, the way her honey-blonde hair caught the light. Her fitted blouse emphasized a figure that still drew admiring glances, though she seemed oblivious to her own allure.

A surge of possessiveness and rage coursed through him. Five years he'd owned her, yet she dared dream of another man? First Thomas, now this mysterious "Sam"—how many others were lurking in her past?

What a waste, he thought bitterly. Five years of marriage, and she still didn't understand her place. A Harding wife's duty was simple—maintain the household, raise the children, present a perfect image to society. Instead, she dared to demand divorce, humiliate him publicly, dream of other men while sleeping in his house.

His mind drifted back five years, to that stormy night when he'd found her on the cliff's edge. The rain had plastered her clothes to her body, her eyes wild with desperation as she stared into the churning waves below. He'd been drowning in his own pain then, heartbroken from Isabella's departure.

When William suggested marriage to the daughter of the man who'd helped save their family's fortune, it had seemed like a perfect solution. Since he couldn't have the woman he loved—what did it matter who he married?

But watching her now, watching her move gracefully through his kitchen, Henry felt an inexplicable tightness in his chest. She'd given him five years of perfect dinners, immaculate housekeeping, and relentless devotion to their son. Even now, knowing he held Billy's location over her head, she maintained her dignity.

"The noodles are ready," Sophia's voice broke through his memories. Her tone maintained perfect respect, but he could hear the tension underneath. She must be thinking about Billy, plotting ways to find him.

The simple bowl of noodles she placed before him was nothing like Isabella's preferred elaborate meals, but the aroma still made his stomach growl. Despite himself, he had to admit Sophia was an excellent wife—when she wasn't defying him at every turn.

"Where is my son?" she asked softly, watching him eat.

Henry took another leisurely bite before answering. "I seem to have forgotten," he said carelessly, enjoying the way her hands clenched at her sides.

"I'll call the police," she threatened, though they both knew she wouldn't dare.

He smirked, pushing away from the table. "I'm going to take a bath," he announced, heading for the stairs. At the landing, he paused. "Come up and wash my back."

"What?" The anger in her voice was delightful.

"Unless you don't want to know where Billy is?" He continued up the stairs, knowing she would follow. For their son, she always would.

When she entered the master bathroom, the entire space was already filled with steam. Henry reclined in the large tub, letting the water lap at his chest, watching the internal struggle play across her face. Even angry, she was beautiful—perhaps especially when angry, with color in her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

"Thinking about how to murder me silently?" he taunted, noticing her eyes fixed on the water's surface. "Wondering if you could hold me under?"

"Of course not," she said through gritted teeth. "Billy still needs you alive."

He imperiously pointed to the stool beside the tub. "Begin."

She started washing his back, her touch so light it was barely perceptible. "Harder," he commanded, and when she immediately increased the pressure, his back instantly felt the stimulating sensation, but Henry maintained his smile.

The feeling made his spine tingle—even her defiance excited him.

"Since we're getting along so well," she said in a falsely sweet voice, "why don't we discuss divorce? You could be with Isabella openly, no need to sneak around—"

The name Isabella snapped something inside him.

He moved faster than she could react, suddenly turning to pin her against the tub's edge. Water splashed out, soaking her blouse, the fabric clinging to every curve. Her startled gasp made his whole body heat up.

"Henry!" She struggled to break free from his control, but froze when she felt the heat pressing against her hip. Their eyes met in the steam-filled air.

Her wet clothes were full of temptation, the thin fabric outlining her perfect body. Looking at her like this—vulnerable yet defiant, beautiful yet untouchable—made him crazy with desire.

He lowered his head, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. She tasted just as he remembered—like vanilla, like defiance, like something uniquely Sophia.

His hands slid to her waist, gripping her hips to pull her closer. Through the wet fabric, he could feel the heat of her skin, her breathing becoming rapid when his fingers found sensitive spots. Part of him wanted to punish her, punish her for making him want her so much, punish her for refusing to know her place, punish her for whatever feelings she had for this mysterious "Sam."

But a larger part just wanted her, had always wanted her, even when he pretended otherwise. This realization shocked him enough to loosen his grip slightly.

Sophia seized her chance, breaking free with a gasp. "Stop," she commanded, though her voice trembled. "This changes nothing. I still want a divorce."

The word divorce reignited his fury. Before she could retreat further, he grabbed her wrist. "You seem to have forgotten something important, wife." His fingers tightened. "You don't make the decisions in this marriage."

"No?" She showed that familiar defiant expression. "Then who does? Isabella?"

The name hit him like a physical blow. Images flashed through his mind—Isabella's perfect smile, her graceful movements, her need for him. All the things Sophia wasn't, all the things he thought he wanted.

So why did thoughts of Isabella now feel so hollow, while Sophia's defiance made his blood boil?

"You want to know where Billy is?" he growled, pulling her close again. "Then stop talking about divorce. Stop mentioning Isabella. Stop thinking about Sam."

Hearing this name, her eyes widened, confusion temporarily replacing anger. Then understanding dawned, and to his further anger, she actually laughed. "You investigated me again, didn't you? Henry, your jealousy reveals your weakness!"

"Who is he?" Henry demanded, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "This man you dream about?"

For a moment, something like pity crossed her face. Then her expression hardened. "Let me go," she said calmly. "Or I'll show you what five years of rage can do."

The threat in her voice sent another wave of heat through him. She was magnificent like this—maintaining her pride and defiance even under his control. He wanted to shatter that pride, make her submit, possess every part of her until she had no room to think of other men.

His free hand tangled in her wet hair, pulling her head back to expose her elegant neck. "You're mine," he growled against her skin. "Whatever you feel for Sanders or this Sam, remember this. You'll always be mine."