Cold Husband Burning Regret: The Divorce He Couldn't Handle novel Chapter 279

Two men pinned Charlotte down as Tricia pulled out a knife. “Aren’t you Professor Carstairs’s star pupil? The brilliant surgeon? Tell me, if I ruin your right hand, do you think you’ll ever hold a scalpel again?”

Charlotte glared at her, eyes burning red, but she didn’t make a sound.

A flicker of hesitation crossed Tricia’s face—she knew that with a single stroke, there’d be no turning back.

But she loathed Charlotte’s unbreakable pride. Charlotte deserved to be trampled beneath her feet, to spend her life looking up in awe and envy.

With a vicious swing, Tricia plunged the knife down. The moment the blade pierced Charlotte’s hand, a searing pain shot through her, forcing a strangled cry from her lips. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her face drained of all color. Still, she refused to beg for mercy.

Even the two hardened men holding her recoiled, beads of cold sweat breaking out as they witnessed the brutality.

Tricia’s smile grew ever more twisted. Watching Charlotte reduced to agony finally satisfied the bitter hatred she’d nursed for so long.

When the knife was yanked free, pain exploded through Charlotte’s hand—so intense it felt as though every drop of blood was draining from her body. She collapsed to the floor, her right hand numb and useless.

Tricia crouched beside her, gripping Charlotte’s chin. “Let me tell you a secret. The day your mother fell from that balcony—it really was an accident. I even grabbed her hand, but… I let go on purpose.”

Charlotte had always suspected Tricia was involved in Rachel’s death. But to hear her recount it so coldly, so carelessly, sent a fresh shudder of hatred through her. She wanted nothing more than to see Tricia dragged to justice.

“I never meant to kill her,” Tricia went on, voice dripping with mock innocence. “But she overheard things she shouldn’t have. Oh, and you know how I dodged Evander’s investigation all those years ago? That was thanks to Mr. Pembroke. Your damned brother and your father—he played a big part in their deaths.”

Charlotte froze, unable to make a sound. It wasn’t just the revelation about her brother and father that stunned her—it was the single, unmistakable red birthmark on Tricia’s wrist, half-hidden beneath her watch strap. Rachel had once said her daughter bore a mark just like that, small as a pinky nail, right on her wrist.

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