The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 137

The Sullivan household descended into chaos as the maids frantically called for a doctor. Mrs. Winters was thrown out and had no choice but to return to Penelope’s place.

Zebulon dragged Rebecca out of the house, his finger jabbing at her nose. He ordered her to return everything her mother had bought, repay the money, and get her out of his sight, or he would divorce her.

“No matter what, she’s still your mother-in-law. How could you—”

Before Rebecca could finish, Zebulon slapped her across the face. “You’re using your mother to torment me and my family on purpose, aren’t you?”

Rebecca clutched her cheek, tears streaming down her face. “If this were Penelope, would you treat her this way?”

“Are you her?” he sneered.

“…”

“You’re not even worthy of being compared to her.”

Zebulon’s words stabbed her heart like a knife. But no matter how much she hurt, she saw no trace of sympathy in his eyes.

“After you have the baby, I’ll give you a sum of money, and we’re getting a divorce. You and that mother of yours can get out of Orenth and never let me see you again.”

With that, he turned and walked away without a backward glance. The cold night wind whipped around Rebecca, chilling her to the bone. Her tears dried, leaving behind only bitterness and a deep, festering hatred. She hated Penelope. If it weren’t for her, none of this would have happened.

Meanwhile, Penelope was in high spirits. After a relaxing bath, she lay in bed, humming a cheerful tune. Her phone buzzed with a video from Michael.

“A little late-night treat for you.”

What kind of treat?

She played the video. Theodore appeared on screen, dressed in a sharp suit, his semi-long hair slicked back, exuding an air of cold, noble elegance. He walked forward, shot a cool glare at the person holding the camera, then shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto a sofa. With one hand, he unbuttoned his shirt, and with the other, he pulled a cigarette from a pack, lighting it with practiced ease. He took a deep, slow drag, the smoke curling from his lips as his fingers worked on the buttons. It was a perfect blend of wild and sexy.

Penelope’s eyes were glued to the screen. The person filming let out an exaggerated “Wow!”

The last photo was of a chubby little boy, around eight or nine years old, sitting on the grass and playing with a model car. When the photographer called his name, he looked up and broke into a wide, toothy grin.

“Is this him too?” Penelope sent the last picture back to Michael. How could this cheerful, sunny little boy be the same person as the cold, sarcastic Theodore of today, who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders?

“That’s him.”

After that brief reply, Michael went silent. Just as Penelope thought the conversation was over, another message came through. “That’s a picture from Theodore’s dark past. I sent it by accident. Don’t ever mention it to him.”

Penelope sent an “OK” emoji, and they ended the chat. She scrolled through the photos again, finally saving the picture of the chubby little boy.

Just as she was about to go to sleep, Theodore called. It was a voice call, but Penelope declined it and called him back on video.

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