The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 180

“When you put it that way, I suppose.”

“So, my wife was attacked by a gang of six men, and my brother watched. Neither of them was physically harmed, but that doesn’t mean a crime wasn’t committed. In fact, I’d like to press charges against those six for assault with intent to cause bodily harm.”

The officer was speechless. He was right. The husband of a woman this formidable was definitely not someone to be trifled with.

As Theodore finished the paperwork and was leading Penelope and Norton out, Mrs. Winters burst in.

“My son? Where’s my son? Has anyone seen my son?”

She scanned the group of bruised faces until Colin croaked, “Mom.” Only then did she recognize him.

“Oh, my god! Who did this to you? Who was the monster that hurt my baby?”

“It was Penelope!” Colin seethed.

“Penelope?” Mrs. Winters looked toward the exit just in time to see Penelope leaving, shooting her a final eye-roll over her shoulder.

“She assaulted my son! Why aren’t you arresting her? Why are you letting her go?” Mrs. Winters shrieked.

The officer sighed. “Ma’am, your son and his five friends attacked one woman. They lost. Badly. They also started the fight. You should be thankful she’s not pressing charges.”

“But my son is injured!”

“Frankly, that’s the only reason he’s not spending the night in a cell and getting a mark on his school record. We’re letting it go.”

“No, no, don’t do that! We… we won’t press charges either.”

Theodore drove them both back to his house, dropped them off, and then disappeared into his study to work.

Penelope and Norton collapsed onto separate sofas, eyeing each other warily.

“So, you two are half-brothers?”

“Yeah. He’s nine years older than me.”

“And?”

“He pretty much raised me.”

“What about your mom?”

“She doesn’t like me. Hates me, actually.”

“Why?”

“She wanted a daughter. I was a son.”

Norton said it casually, but Penelope sensed a wave of sadness wash over him.

“So your brother is like a father to you.”

“Me too.”

“Go make something.”

“I know how to make porridge,” she offered. It was a skill she’d learned because Zebulon had a sensitive stomach.

“Anything else?”

“I think the fact that I can make porridge is already pretty impressive.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“You cook, then!”

“I don’t even know how to make porridge.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

When Theodore finished his work and came downstairs, he found two pathetic creatures on the verge of starvation.

He shook his head, a resigned smile on his face, and went into the kitchen.

As he was chopping vegetables, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and a sticky, sweet voice whispered in his ear.

“Hubby, I’m pregnant.”