The Wife You Buried Is Back from Hell novel Chapter 1080

It wasn't that she didn't want to; she was just afraid. The past hurts ran too deep, like scars etched into her heart, a constant reminder not to repeat her mistakes. Moreover, Alexander's depression was like an invisible mountain weighing on her. She didn't know if she had the strength to bear it all, or if a love freighted with such pain and heaviness could ever last.

She remained silent for a long time before finally speaking. "Not every story in this world has a happy ending," she said slowly. "More often, there are just regrets. And sometimes, a story doesn't get an ending at all."

Vivian looked at her profile, wanting to say more, but held her tongue.

-

The car entered the residential complex and came to a slow stop in front of the building. Danielle killed the engine, and the car fell silent, save for Niki's steady breathing.

She took a deep breath and turned to Vivian. "Mom, I know you mean well. But matters of the heart can't be solved just by 'talking it out.' I need time. I need to figure out if there's any possibility left for him and me."

Seeing her red-rimmed eyes, Vivian didn't press her further. She just nodded. "You have to remember, no matter what you decide, your uncle and I will support you. You don't have to carry everything by yourself."

Danielle nodded, opened the car door, and gently lifted the sleeping Niki from the back seat. She wrapped her daughter's coat tighter around her and walked into the building.

After getting home and tucking Niki into bed, Danielle sank exhaustedly onto the sofa. Her mother's words echoed in her ears, and the image of Alexander's face refused to leave her mind. She took out her phone and pulled up Alexander's contact information, her finger hovering over the screen, unable to press the call button.

Nash had been with Alexander for years and knew he rarely used to smoke, and even then, only sparingly at social functions. But recently, he'd been smoking voraciously, one cigarette after another, as if only the smoke could numb his restless emotions.

Alexander didn't respond. He just lifted his hand and gently flicked the ash, which fell starkly against his black overcoat. His other hand pressed against his brow, his fingers rubbing his throbbing temples. The pressure around him was so low it was suffocating. In a way, the simple act of smoking to release his feelings was a sign of life in itself.

The man suddenly let out a derisive snort. He took the cigarette and crushed it out in the car's ashtray, the ember extinguishing instantly, leaving only a scorched mark.

"Let's go," he said, his voice hoarse and devoid of emotion.