The Wife You Buried Is Back from Hell novel Chapter 734

The funeral was originally set for this weekend, but in the past few days, the old house had been thrown into chaos after a fire.

“It’ll go ahead as planned,” Alexander said, his voice quieter than usual, edged with a fatigue that was easy to miss. “Grandma always cared about these things. We can’t let her leave without dignity.”

Danielle was silent for a few seconds. Then she said, “I want to be there.”

Alexander looked at her. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

The evening light slanted across her face, revealing a storm of emotions in her eyes—hesitation, struggle, and a softness he couldn’t quite decipher.

For a moment, he wondered if maybe Rebecca hadn’t been lying after all.

He just nodded, his voice gentler. “Alright, I’ll take care of everything.”

He’d have his assistant handle all the arrangements. He wouldn’t let the mess of people and problems disturb her again.

Danielle gave a soft “okay,” turned, and started toward the kitchen to find something to eat.

But suddenly, she felt his hand wrap around her wrist.

Alexander’s fingers were cool and calloused, his grip gentle but impossible to break free from.

She turned around and found herself caught in the depths of his gaze.

“Danielle,” he said, slow and deliberate, “whatever Rebecca’s told you, I don’t want you staying by my side out of pity, or letting it change how you see me.”

He paused, and for a moment, a vulnerability slipped into his voice—so subtle even he didn’t notice. “You can hate me. Be angry at me. Ask me anything you want. But you don’t have to bottle up your anger for my sake, and I don’t need your pity.”

He knew too well how overwhelming emotions could be.

He knew how relentless the tides of feeling could become.

He didn’t want Danielle to bear that kind of weight.

Her heart gave a sudden, painful squeeze, as if something sharp had pricked it.

She looked at his pale face, at the raw honesty in his eyes, and all the feelings she’d tried to bury started to surge up again.

She jerked her hand free without a word and strode out of the hospital room.

At the end of the hallway, she leaned against the wall and realized her fingers were trembling.

Outside the window, the wind picked up, spinning a handful of leaves in circles before they settled to the ground.

Danielle stared out into the twilight, her mind tangled and messy.

Danielle headed to the kitchen to fix something to eat.

Memories, sodden and heavy, began to swell and rise—she realized she’d never really forgotten the foods he loved.

Each tiny fragment of recollection felt like a pearl scattered across the floor: impossible to gather, and yet sharp enough to leave her heart sore and unsettled.

She shook her head, poured chopped tomatoes into the pan, and flinched when a spatter of hot oil stung her hand.

What was she even doing?

Alexander said not to believe Rebecca, that she was just playing the victim.

Yet here Danielle was, making dinner for him. Was it pity? Or was it that fragile, unspoken feeling she still refused to admit?

The water in the pot began to boil, bubbling insistently.

She lifted the lid and only then realized she’d forgotten to buy stew meat.

The fridge was nearly empty—just a few wilted greens and half a carton of eggs.

With a frown, she turned toward the entryway to grab her wallet, planning to head out and pick up some fresh ingredients.