Remarried Wife: Mr. Ex, We Will Never Reconcile!-Chapter 112: Don’t Sign!

The study was immersed in shadowy darkness, with only the cool moonlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a faint blue hue.

Vera Sheridan deftly turned the combination knob of the safe, and the door opened with a click.

With the faint glow of her phone’s flashlight, she was momentarily stunned by what she saw inside.

Rows of deep blue velvet jewelry boxes were neatly arranged, lying silently cold.

Beside them were two dark red marriage certificates and a seven-inch photograph—capturing the moment of their first encounter.

The photograph was covered with crisscrossed cracks, evidently once torn apart violently, then clumsily and persistently repaired.

Every glaring crack silently mocked the futility of restoration, proclaiming the complete shattering of the past.

Even without opening them, Vera was well aware of what was inside those jewelry boxes—those jades she had sold off without hesitation.

Ian Kane had obsessively bought them back one by one.

A slight, cold smile crept onto her lips, her heart churned with disdain and sarcasm.

...

Finally, her fingertips touched a thick manila envelope in the corner.

She swiftly pulled it out and opened it quickly—it was indeed her medical records and imaging data from all her consultations!

Vera couldn’t suppress the smile at the corners of her lips, her cold eyes gleamed with a sudden, intense joy in the moonlight, fixated on the envelope in her embrace, as if grasping new hope.

Just then!

A soft sound of the door opening came from the entrance.

Vera’s heart contracted sharply!

No time to think, she instantly turned off her phone’s flashlight, with a soft click closed the safe door, tightly holding the envelope to her chest, and quickly bent down.

Her body, like a startled nocturnal animal, with the aid of memory and the faint light seeping from outside the window, nimbly squeezed into the narrow shadowy corner formed by the desk and the wall.

She held her breath, blending completely into the darkness, her heartbeat pounding like a drum.

The study door was silently pushed open.

Ian Kane’s tall figure appeared at the doorway, the moonlight clearly outlining his distinct profile.

He didn’t turn on the lights, taking steps that carried a kind of floating heaviness, heading straight for the safe that brimmed with solace.

The moonlight illuminated half of his face, the dark circles under his eyes were clear even in the dimness, his jawline tense as a drawn string, lips devoid of blood.

The daytime regality and sternness vanished entirely.

The whole person exuded an ultimate fatigue and vulnerability, as if life had been drained from him.

The moonlight poured over him, exposing his every move without reserve.

Crouched in the shadows, Vera observed his every subtle motion with cold eyes.

Ian Kane opened the safe, carefully took out the photograph covered in cracks, and slumped into the single sofa by the floor-to-ceiling window.

He lowered his head, his gaze falling on the photograph.

Nineteen-year-old Vera, in a pure white ballet dress, like a swan strayed into the mortal world.

The man’s fingertips trembled with a near-obsessive tremor, lingering over the girl’s smooth forehead and slightly raised chin in the photograph...

His Adam’s apple moved with difficulty, suppressing a silent sob.

He abruptly turned his face away and took out a pack of cigarettes.

With a "ding", the lighter sparked a ghostly blue flame, instantly illuminating the turbulent and indelible redness in his eyes.

The cigarette was lit.

He took a deep drag, the scarlet tip flared brightly in the darkness and quickly dimmed.

The pale blue smoke swirling around his silent and lonely silhouette.

Like a wounded beast silently licking its wounds.

Hiding in the dark, Vera watched it all, expressionless, without a ripple in her heart, only a cold indifference.

Not knowing how much time passed, the study only retained the cool moonlight and faint, lingering smell of smoke.

Ian Kane had left at some point.

Vera, holding the heavy envelope, stretched her numb legs and quietly slipped back to her room.

She carefully hid the envelope before succumbing to a tired, deep sleep, dreaming of her light dance steps under the stage lights.

The next morning, Vera went downstairs.

In the dining room, Ian Kane dressed in casual homewear, his back straight, was placing perfectly cooked sunny-side-up eggs and toast on the table.

There was also warmed milk and sliced fruit on the table.

Upon hearing footsteps, he turned around.

The man without expression, the red veins and weary dark circles in his eyes not entirely faded.

He gazed at her, his tone light, "Come have breakfast, then we’ll go sign at the court."

Vera’s expression remained indifferent, without a response, she pulled the chair and sat down, picked up the fork and knife, mechanically cutting the food on her plate.

Every mouthful tasted like nothing.

Sitting across from her, Ian Kane cast a complex gaze on her.

Watching her eat continually, the corners of his lips slightly curved into a joyful arc.

Unintentionally, he glanced at a nearby tea mirror.

The mirror clearly reflected a scene of the two sitting face to face at the dining table—the husband preparing breakfast for his wife, the wife quietly enjoying the meal. The light and shadows painted a warm composition.

Just like before.

But in the mirror, Vera’s face showed no trace of past joy and warmth, only numbness remained.

Ian Kane withdrew his gaze from the mirror, a hard-to-describe irritation swept through his heart.

He reached over and smoothly pushed a cup of warm milk to her side, his low voice carried an indisputable authority:

"Drink the milk."

Vera didn’t even lift her eyelids, continuing to eat her meal.

...

Ardendale Central Court.

Ian Kane’s attorney, Attorney Rivers, was already waiting at the door, and as he saw them getting out of the car, he immediately came forward to greet them.

Inside the court’s mediation room, Attorney Rivers, in front of the court staff, took out two documents and placed them on the table.

"President Kane, Mrs. Kane, here are the ’Application to Withdraw Divorce Proceedings’ and the ’Divorce Settlement Agreement’, the content has been adjusted according to your previous instructions, please sign after confirming accuracy."

Ian Kane took the documents, without looking, directly handed one to Vera, "Sign it."

Vera took a deep breath, her fingertips trembled slightly, as she pulled out a pen from the pen holder handed by Attorney Rivers.

The pen hovered above the signature line, trembling slightly, as she comforted herself, it’s just temporary.

Ian Kane’s gaze tightly fixed on her hand holding the pen, his expression complex, hard to read, with tension for impending control, yet with something deeper, darker.

Just as Vera’s pen tip was about to touch the paper, a familiar, deep, and powerful male voice came from the doorway.

"Vera, don’t sign!"

Vera’s pen tip fiercely pierced through the white paper, lifting her eyes, bypassing Ian Kane’s stern gaze, Noah Grant’s tall and steady figure entered her sight.

He, windswept, with his upright posture wrapped in a slightly creased dark suit, collar casually open, no tie in sight.

The man’s black hair slightly messy, a faint trace of red veins in his eyes, jaw tight, eyes like torches, carrying an indisputable determination, walked briskly over.

The air seemed to solidify, only his heavy footsteps and burning gaze remained. Vera’s heart leaped to her throat, her hand holding the pen stiff in mid-air.

Wasn’t he flying to Bernheim?

Why did he suddenly come back...

Ian Kane also hadn’t expected Noah Grant to rush over at this critical moment.

His gaze darkened, then he pulled his lips into a mocking curve, lazily crossing one leg over the other, jaw slightly raised, leisurely studying him.

His fingertip unconsciously rubbing the silver wedding ring back on his finger.