Five Lost Angels: My Husband's Fatal Deception novel Chapter 11

"That worthless tramp? Her death saves oxygen. The Prescott name doesn't need her damaged bloodline anyway. Finish this wedding or I'll cut you off completely."

James, typically the model son, physically moved his mother aside, his eyes glacial.

"Then find yourself another retirement plan. I'm finding Emily."

"And mother—speak about her like that again, and our relationship is done. Period."

James bolted from the venue and booked the next flight home.

When he arrived at the house, the emptiness hit him like a physical blow. Everything—all traces of Emily—gone. Not a single reminder left behind.

Standing in the hollow space, James felt disoriented. He could still visualize Emily's presence in every corner, phantom images of their life together.

James remembered the wooden rocking horse in the living room corner—the one they'd built during a weekend together.

That was during Emily's first pregnancy.

She'd confided that she grew up in foster care, making it to college only through scholarships and community support. Meeting him had given her family for the first time.

She'd promised to give their child everything she never had.

But she never got the chance—because he had deliberately sacrificed that baby.

And every baby after.

The kitchen gleamed with emptiness, as if newly installed.

Once, Emily had filled it with warmth—mismatched mugs she collected, herbs growing in the window, recipe books dog-eared and stained with use.

She'd promised homemade meals instead of takeout, said she'd learn his favorite dishes.

As pregnancy after pregnancy failed because he refused protection, her vitality diminished. Eventually the kitchen went quiet.

As memories flooded back, James closed his eyes against the pain, but tears escaped anyway.

Michael's warning echoed: karma catches up eventually.

Back then, he'd believed Rachel was his destiny. Emily's devotion seemed irrelevant.

Only now did he understand the true meaning of regret.

Michael called. "No updates from search and rescue. Ocean crashes rarely have survivors... Listen, I've uncovered some things about Rachel you need to know."

The truth was ugly: Rachel had been caught sleeping with her married professor. The scandal had resulted in her expulsion—ethical violations and professional misconduct.

"I'm finding her. Dead or alive."

Turns out I've got a horseshoe up my ass after all.

Just before boarding, the girl ahead of me in line doubled over in pain—classic appendicitis symptoms. I was the only one who understood her panicked French.

With her life potentially at stake, I abandoned my travel plans and got her to emergency surgery.

While scrolling news in the hospital waiting room, I saw it—my flight had gone down over the Pacific. No survivors expected.

The girl's name was Julie—a fearless solo backpacker with an undercut and tattoo sleeves. What began as a medical crisis had saved us both from disaster.

During her recovery, we became unexpected friends.

She noticed my missing finger and asked point-blank what happened.

Maybe it was the near-death experience or just emotional exhaustion, but I told her everything.

After hearing my story, she leaned forward with perfect seriousness:

"Want me to make those psychos disappear? I've got connections. Just say the word."