My Deceased Wife Wants a Divorce (Hannah) novel Chapter 179

"Okay," Hannah agreed without hesitation.

Lionel's hands clenched into fists. His chest felt tight, as if he couldn't breathe. Just as he was about to protest, Sandra stepped up beside him.

"Lionel, Hannah is your wife. You're right here. It wouldn't be right to let Quennel take her," she said softly, tugging at his sleeve. "On the way home, you should apologize properly. Don't make her angry again."

Her voice, though gentle, was loud enough for everyone to hear. It was the tone one might use to coax a child—intimate and cloying, yet utterly repulsive. It was as if any kindness Lionel might show his wife was a gift bestowed by her.

"You should probably just take Ms. Woods home," Hannah said.

Lionel looked at her, at her deceptively innocent expression, as if she couldn't see the undercurrents of the situation. Before he could respond, she continued.

"You brought her out, so you should see her home. You can't expect Quennel to do it, can you?"

Sandra flinched, stealing a nervous glance at Quennel. She would rather walk home than be driven by that man.

"That's not necessary. I can just get a cab. I don't live far," she said quickly.

"It's dark and unsafe," Hannah countered, her voice calm and steady, her eyes locked on Sandra. "What if you get cornered in an alley again, Ms. Woods? I wouldn't want you to blame me for it, like you did this time."

Her words were aimed at Sandra, but they were meant for Lionel.

"Quennel, let's go."

She didn't give either of them a chance to argue. She turned and walked away with Quennel, leaving Lionel and Sandra standing in the cool night air.

After a long moment of silence, Lionel's voice came out, raspy. "Let's go."

Sandra clutched her handbag, a dull ache in her chest as she followed him.

It was a pair of black, lace thong underwear. Incredibly provocative.

She collapsed onto her bed, her eyes fixed on the offensive garment.

Was it Hannah's? Or Cora's?

With a guttural cry of rage, she leaped to her feet and began stomping on the underwear, grinding it into the floor with her heel.

"Sluts! They're all sluts! Trying to steal my man! Shameless, disgusting whores!"

Staring at the now-filthy piece of lace, Sandra grabbed her phone and dialed Quennel's number.

"Mr. Rosenberg," she said, her voice dripping with a newfound venom, "I was wrong today. I know you have feelings for Hannah. Let's work together."