The Man Who Destroyed Me Is Now Begging to Mend Me 47

to deliver her gift.”

Chapter 47

The words detonated like a silent bomb. People thought in shock, ‘A coffin? As a gift for a miscarriage?‘

Before Helen or Lucas could process the horror, Emily spoke up, her voice trembling with feigned tears. “No! Sophia would never send something so vile! How could she disgrace Mrs. Westwood like this?”

She ducked behind Lucas as if Annabelle might open fire. Lucas squared his shoulders, shielding his fragile accessory.

“Some of us had parents to teach manners, Quinn. Clearly, yours died before that chapter.”

Annabelle’s laugh was short, sharp, and lethal. “You two really are made for each other. A scumbag and a cheap homewrecker.” No wonder Sophie was so devastated that she lost the baby.

Helen’s face went volcanic. “Watch your mouth! You waltz in here with a toy coffin, and we’re still letting you breathe. Count your blessings.”

Only Billy caught the earlier bomb. He stepped forward, voice suddenly hoarse. “You said Sophia miscarried?”

“Yes, Mr. Westwood,” Annabelle replied, her tone softening noticeably. Sophie had once told her that in the entire Westwood family, only Lucas’s grandmother and his father, Billy, had shown her genuine kindness, never looking down on her humble origins.

Billy’s tux seemed to wilt. “Where is she? Is someone with her?”

Helen’s shriek sliced in before an answer. “Spare us! Everyone knows that bitch’s womb is a dead zone. Miscarriage? That’s like claiming you were mugged by Bigfoot.”

Emily bit her lip, mostly to kill a giggle. She peeked out with faux–concern. “The medical report was crystal–clear. She is infertile. If Sophia didn’t want to show up, she could’ve just said so instead of making up such a disgusting lie.”

Helen grew even more enraged. “I always knew Sophia was a bitch, but I never thought she’d sink this low. Lucas, you have to divorce her, now!”

Billy frowned, watching his wife’s vulgar outburst. “Pipe down, Helen. Their marriage isn’t your reality show. Stay out of it.”

“No grandkids, no future. If they can’t have children, they’ve failed this family! And now she’s out there slandering us with fairy–tale miscarriages? She’s lower than trailer trash. She’s toxic waste.”

Embarrassed by the scene but unable to explode in public, Billy lowered his voice, urging Helen to stop. But the more he defended Sophia, the nastier she became.

Annabelle had heard enough. “Someone shut her up,” she ordered coldly. The bodyguards behind her immediately moved in, gripping Helen by both arms and stuffing a napkin into her mouth. Helen’s eyes promised slow, creative murder.

Annabelle massaged her temples, then shoved the tiny coffin into Lucas’s chest. “Believe what you want. Inside is your kid. Consider this my formal notice. You and Sophie are done.”

Lucas’s hands trembled. “Annabelle, haven’t you caused enough trouble already?”

Emily found the coffin unsettling and morbid. She refused to believe it held a real child, just some sick prop meant to shock everyone. “Lucas, that thing is cursed. Drop it now!”

She swung. The coffin flew, hit the marble, lid flipping like a coin. A small, bloody mass of tissue rolled out onto the polished

floor.

The crowd sucked in one giant breath. Phones half–rose, no one was sure if they should film or flee.

Chapter

“Holy–There’s actually something in there.”

“Is that… a fetus?”

“Or pork tenderloin from the market. Place your bets.”

Whispers swirled through the crowd, thick with shock and wild speculation.

Lucas’s stare could have cut glass. “That blob isn’t my kid, Annabelle. You done yet?”

Annabelle gave a tiny, tired shake of the head. “And that’s why Sophie’s finally done with you, Lucas. You couldn’t earn her love if it came gift–wrapped. From here on, she owes you zip.”

She flicked two fingers. The bodyguards let go of Helen and fell in behind her like a black–suited shadow.

Helen ripped the napkin from her mouth, lipstick smeared into a sloppy red grin. “Trash travels in packs,” she screamed after Annabelle. “Tell that gold–digging hillbilly she’s dead to the Westwoods!”

The word “trash” slammed into Annabelle’s ribs. In a flash, she saw every fake smile Sophie had pasted on for two straight years. No wonder it cracked.

Her hand shot out, snagging a crystal lamp the size of a baseball bat. She pivoted, slow, deliberate, heels ticking like a timer.

“I only came to drop off a present,” she said, voice velvet–soft and razor–sharp. “But if you won’t shut up, I might as well make it unforgettable. Maybe a body count is what it’ll take to shut that filthy mouth of yours.”

She dragged the lamp behind her, crystal shards skittering across marble. The crowd parted, phones up, popcorn instincts on full throttle.

Helen’s bravado evaporated. She ducked behind Billy, squeaking, “Stop her. Somebody stop her!”

Annabelle’s smile went arctic. She swung.

For a split second, the crowd seemed frozen. But Emily lunged, arms wide. “You’ll go through me first!” she declared, spreading her arms like a martyr.

The lamp hung mid–air, an inch from Emily’s highlights, until a single cracked voice froze the room.

“Annabelle.”

The storm in Annabelle’s eyes stilled, soothed by that voice alone.

Sophia stood in the doorway, white as the tablecloths, eyes too big for her face. She closed the distance, fingers slipping around Annabelle’s white knuckles.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

“They called you gutter trash,” Annabelle choked. “They deserve to pay!”

“I know,” Sophia said, easing the lamp down. “But orange jumpsuits aren’t your color.” She spotted blood dripping from Annabelle’s palm, and her eyes welled up.

She wrapped her hands around the lamp and felt the resistance slowly fade. Once it was free, she dropped it to the floor with a heavy clatter.

Stepping closer, Sophia supported Annabelle gently. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” A man’s voice cracked like a whip. “You crash the party, swing a weapon, and stroll out? That is not our family

manner.”

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