Cold Husband Burning Regret: The Divorce He Couldn't Handle novel Chapter 180

That afternoon, Charlotte returned to the old family estate. Linette was waiting outside the courtyard with several household staff, offering a polite nod and a gentle smile. “Mrs. Howard, both your mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law are in the sitting room.”

Charlotte nodded and followed them inside. In the living room, Rosemary was arranging freshly cut flowers in a vase, her hands moving with practiced grace. Miranda sat nearby, her gaze tracking Rosemary before drifting purposefully to Charlotte’s midsection. After a pause, she spoke, her tone cool but direct. “Pregnancy is no small matter. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Mom, Grandma, actually I’m not—”

Before Charlotte could finish, a young boy burst into the room, almost slipping past the nanny stationed at the door. Charlotte recognized Hans immediately, her expression unreadable. She had already heard about his situation at the estate.

The nanny’s face went pale—she knew she was in trouble. Hurriedly, she entered after him, trying to usher Hans out, but he shook free, stubbornly refusing to leave.

Before Rosemary could say a word, Miranda stood up, her voice sharp. “How are you watching over the children?”

“We’re so sorry, ma’am. We’ll take him out right away,” the nanny stammered, her face ashen as she reached for Hans.

He resisted, crying out, “I want to see Uncle! He promised he’d come back to spend time with me!”

“Enough!” Miranda snapped, her patience long gone. “Who do you think you are? We’ve already shown you enough kindness letting you stay. Don’t make a scene.”

Whatever Hans was about to say died in his throat. Miranda’s scolding seemed to paralyze him; all color drained from his face.

And then—he wet himself. A dark, wet patch spread across the floor.

Miranda recoiled in disgust. “Get him out of here, now.” She covered her mouth and nose, shaking her head, her tone heavy with contempt. “Honestly—old enough to know better, and still wetting himself.”

The nannies dragged Hans away, and as soon as they reached the doorway, he broke free and bolted down the hall, sobbing.

Once Linette had someone clean up the mess, she quietly took up her place behind Rosemary.

Rosemary finally looked up at Charlotte, who had remained silent throughout the commotion. With a sigh, she said, “Evander really didn’t think this through. Still, Hans will only be staying with the Howard family for a short while. The housekeeper will look after him. Unless it’s absolutely necessary, you won’t have to see him again.”

Charlotte’s breath caught. Was Rosemary hinting that she should give up on the idea of divorce?

“But Grandma, I—”

“That’s enough.” Rosemary slowly rose and approached her, her expression gentle but firm. “Charlotte, the Howard family doesn’t let its children end up on the street. I hope you understand.”

Charlotte stood rooted to the spot, a weight settling in her chest.

“If you give birth to a son, your position in this family will be unshakable. When you’re my age, you’ll realize love is the most unreliable thing of all.”

As Miranda spoke, a flicker of bitterness passed through her eyes—a deep resignation, tinged with something like scorn. But it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by her usual composure. “That’s all I’ll say. Think about it.”

After she left, Charlotte lingered in the living room for a moment before heading outside.

In the garden, she spotted Hans crouched beside a flowerbed, his small body curled up as he wept. The sight of his lonely, trembling back tugged at her heart.

Instinctively, Charlotte wanted to comfort him. But remembering he was Tricia’s son, she stopped herself. Still, her gaze fell on his bare legs, where rows of old and new scars crisscrossed his skin. She froze.

As a doctor, Charlotte was all too familiar with wounds.

These scars—layered, relentless—were no accident.

But wasn’t Tricia supposed to dote on her child?

How could she possibly have let Hans’s legs and knees end up covered in so many old injuries?