My coldhearted ex demands a remarriage - Chapter 134

Chapter 134:

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Kristopher’s gaze shifted to her, his voice tinged with indifference. “I suppose if the scar remains, you’ll keep holding it against me.”

Ah, so that was it. He wasn’t concerned about her well-being—he was simply wary of old grievances resurfacing. Carrie understood—the physical scar might heal, but the emotional wound remained unaddressed.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Willow stepped inside, balancing a tray with a bowl of soup. Her attempt at warmth was as transparent as the crystal-clear broth.

“Mrs. Norris, I made some soup for you.”

Willow had spared no expense, garnishing it meticulously with cranberries. It wasn’t out of genuine care—Carrie knew that well. During Carrie’s absence, such delicacies would typically end up in Willow’s own kitchen. Now, she sought to curry favor.

Carrie’s phone buzzed on the table, cutting through the moment. She glanced at it briefly. “Leave it on the side table. I’ll have it later.”

Willow hesitated before setting the tray down, her eyes darting around the room as if cataloging every detail. Carrie unlocked her phone, intending to convert a voice message into text. But her thumb slipped, and the audio began playing aloud:

“The new script looks good, but the romance needs more drama and tension. Otherwise, it won’t hold the audience’s interest…” She quickly stopped the playback, but the damage was done.

Kristopher’s eyes narrowed. “A script?”

Carrie ignored him, typing a reply without so much as a glance in his direction. Meanwhile, Willow edged toward the door, her hand sliding into her pocket. She discreetly dialed a number, her movements subtle as a whisper, and lingered just within earshot.

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Kristopher’s eyes flickered, the glint of a memory stirring. “Did you make that 22 million in your account from writing scripts?” he asked, his tone halfway between curiosity and disbelief.

Carrie responded with nothing more than a nonchalant hum, a sound so casual it bordered on dismissive.

The arrogant tone from an earlier voice message echoed in Kristopher’s mind, his annoyance simmering beneath the surface. A company producing over-the-top dramas seemed beneath contempt. The fact that Carrie, being his wife, was reduced to being bossed around was a source of profound embarrassment for him.

His dissatisfaction etched itself across his features. “Let’s be clear,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension, “Have I ever been stingy with money? Why do you need to degrade yourself by writing such trashy scripts?”

Fury erupted within Carrie. Why was his profession deemed prestigious while hers was viewed as self-degradation?

She flung her phone onto the sofa, her retort sharp and unyielding. “Everything I write is my hard work. Even if you don’t understand, you will show respect!”

The doctors in the room wished they could vanish, their silence a testament to the charged atmosphere.

Kristopher paused, the room holding its breath. Just when everyone expected an explosion, he drawled, “Writing scripts is better than being a celebrity. If you want to write, then go ahead.”

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