Cold Husband Burning Regret: The Divorce He Couldn't Handle novel Chapter 177

“You two are really crossing a line.” Wesley, assuming Charlotte couldn’t understand foreign languages, shot a pointed look at the siblings. Even with Professor Aldridge’s translator nearby, they’d insisted on holding a conversation in French right in front of Charlotte. Their intentions couldn’t have been clearer.

Seeing Wesley step in to defend her, Evander regarded him with a cold, inscrutable stare—his presence dark and quietly menacing.

Before Evander could say a word, Charlotte gently caught Wesley’s arm, her voice calm and detached. “Let it go. I don’t care what they’re saying.”

She never revealed that she actually understood every word. Nor did she see any point in arguing, especially in front of Professor Aldridge. A lie was a lie. No one could really take her place.

Wesley nodded on the surface, but inwardly, he couldn’t help being bothered.

…

The party was still in full swing when Ilse emerged from the lounge. She beckoned a server, placed a glass of wine onto his tray, slipped him a tip, and quietly instructed him to bring the drink to Wesley.

Blending back into the flow of guests, Ilse watched Wesley and Charlotte—always together, never straying far from each other. The sight gnawed at her, fueling her anxiety.

She had to make this engagement happen.

Lifting her phone, Ilse sent a quick message to Genevieve.

Genevieve saw her mother’s text just as she was chattering away beside Tricia and Evander. Evander swirled his drink, visibly uninterested, responding to Tricia and Genevieve’s chatter with little more than polite indifference. His gaze wandered, settling on Wesley and Charlotte across the room.

The server approached Wesley, offering the wine. Wesley, deep in conversation, accepted the glass and, in good spirits, took a slow sip.

It wasn’t long before Wesley began to feel off.

“Wes, are you alright?” Charlotte noticed the change in his demeanor.

Wesley pressed a hand to his temple. “Bit of a headache. Feeling dizzy.”

“Do you want me to help you to the lounge and sit down for a bit?”

Beads of sweat had gathered on Wesley’s brow. Gritting his teeth, he managed a nod. “Yeah. Please.”

Charlotte reached out to steady him, but before she could, Genevieve abruptly pushed her aside and quickly took Wesley’s arm. “Mr. Rayburn, you’re not feeling well. Let me help you. I’ll take you to rest.”

Wife…

Tricia froze, her nails digging into her palm. Had he just acknowledged Charlotte as his wife, and in front of everyone?

Charlotte nearly laughed aloud. So, he remembered she was his wife, after all?

But before she could make a retort, a frantic shout rang out from the lounge—Ilse’s voice.

The crowd surged toward the commotion. As the office door was thrown open, the scene inside stopped everyone cold: Wesley lay sprawled on the sofa, shirt rumpled and half-undone. Beside him, Genevieve was just as disheveled.

Unlike Wesley—completely unconscious—Genevieve was awake, clutching her dress to her chest, eyes brimming with tears. “I…I only brought Mr. Rayburn in here because he felt sick. I didn’t expect—”

Ilse rushed to shield her daughter, face full of motherly distress.

The growing noise roused Wesley. He slowly regained his senses, squinting against the headache. As he took in the scene—his own disarray, Genevieve’s feigned distress, and the accusatory stares—realization dawned. He’d been set up by this mother-daughter duo.