My coldhearted ex demands a remarriage

Chapter 75:

Swallowing her hesitation along with the wine, Carrie forced herself to stay. Whether it was out of spite or a desire not to dampen Camille’s spirits, she reached for the deck of cards and began to play.

The boys, sensing the shift, found their places around them, and the games commenced. Camille, more enthusiastic than skilled, quickly amassed a losing streak that left her with a row of empty beer bottles. She swayed unsteadily as she rose. “I can’t take it anymore. Bathroom break,” she slurred.

Carrie stood to follow, but the crowd boxed her in. A single misstep would mean brushing against too many bodies, so she sat back down, resigned.

Meanwhile, outside in the hallway, a group of sharply dressed men approached the private rooms. Kristopher strode at the center, his expression stormy, his patience hanging by a thread. Albin, walking beside him, cast him a sidelong glance and offered cautiously, “Kristopher, if you’re that worried, maybe we should call it a night. Go home and talk things out. There’s no shame in bending a little for someone you care about. Or… are you really set on this divorce?”

Kristopher’s jaw tightened at the word “divorce.” It was a thorn in his side, prodded deeper with every passing moment. Carrie had been pushing boundaries lately, flaunting her newfound independence. Yet he found himself infuriatingly powerless to stop her.

His gaze turned icy as he shot Albin a glare. “If you don’t have anything useful to say, keep your mouth shut.”

As they neared the private rooms, Camille stepped out of hers, eyes glued to her phone, oblivious to the approaching storm. The men in Kristopher’s group paused, their attention drawn to the glimpse of boys lounging inside her room.

“Wow, these women know how to live it up better than we do,” one of them quipped. “A whole room of toy boys? That’s next-level fun.”noveldrama

Another chuckled, “She’s a knockout, too. Makes you wonder if she’s got a married friend in there who’s just as bold.” At the mention of married women, their thoughts turned to Carrie.

Kristopher had been notably absent from home, leaving her to endure years of loneliness. Someone, emboldened by the drinks they’d had, blurted out, “Kristopher, you’ve left your wife to fend for herself for so long. Aren’t you worried she might, you know, find someone else to keep her warm?”

The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly. A heavy silence fell over the group, and all eyes darted nervously toward Kristopher. He said nothing, his jaw tightening as he absently turned the ring on his finger.

The words “find someone else” replayed in his mind like a broken record, each repetition digging deeper. Images of Carrie flickered through his thoughts—her quiet defiance earlier that day, her face pale as she masked her pain. She had endured far worse injury in silence before him, yet today, she was crumbling in front of another man over something as small as a scald.

The irony twisted in his gut like a knife.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kristopher spoke. His voice was low, steady, and laced with steel. “She wouldn’t dare.”

After a marathon of drinks that blurred the line between merriment and chaos, Camille suddenly flung the unfinished playing cards across the table as if they had wronged her and sprang to her feet.

“It’s an absolute catastrophe!” she declared, her voice edged with panic. “My brother knows I’m back! He’s on his way to drag me out of here! I’ve got to bolt! Carrie, stay put—I’ll call a car to pick you up.”

.

.

.