?<strong>Chapter 813:</strong>


    The words spilled from her like she had known him for years, as if she had memorized his every preference.


    Michael’s emotions shifted, first surprise, then a steady calm. When she finished, he raised his hand, cutting her off. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not divorced. I’m widowed.”


    Dulce chuckled, her fingers brushing his as she intertwined them. “But I believe we can make our lives better together than with anyone else.”


    Michael’s heart skipped a beat. A part of him sensed he might not be able to handle this bold young woman. She reminded him of Lacey—confident, fearless, and dangerously captivating.


    Michael didn’t hesitate to pull his hand away, wiping it with the handkerchief he had brought along. His voice was cold, his gaze unyielding. “I’m not in the mood for games. Next time you touch me, watch where your hands go.”


    Dulce sighed, her shoulders slumping in quiet disappointment. She watched him leave, her eyes filled with unspoken longing.


    That evening, Michael returned home and began sorting through Lacey’s belongings.


    Her old schoolbooks, the clothes she used to wear, the jewelry she had loved, and the shoes she once walked in were all carefully arranged, upying the room like silent memories.


    For as long as Michael could remember, he and Lacey had been inseparable.


    In the Hudson family, Lacey had always been overlooked, her life a constant battle. Yet, Michael had witnessed her strength—how she had always protected Fiona, even at the expense of her own well-being.


    Everyone had something worth protecting.


    Michael, however, had lived a life of privilege, untouched by hardship until Lacey entered his world. Loving her gave him insight into her pain, her relentless fight.


    Even now, her absence felt like a shadow lingering in every corner of his life—her essence woven into his blood, his existence, his soul.


    Their love had been intense, passionate. How could Michael ever move on without her?


    A few dayster, Michael crossed paths with Fiona.


    Fiona had married and had a child three years ago, but her marriage wasn’t without its struggles.


    She had just argued with her husband over something trivial and, feeling frustrated, had gone for a walk when she ran into Michael.


    “Didn’t bring the kid with you?” Michael asked.


    Fiona rested her chin on her hand, stirring her drink absentmindedly with a straw. “Left him with his grandma. Crowell doesn’t care, so why should I?”


    Michael leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studied Fiona, his voice lowering to something more serious. “Did he upset you?”


    Fiona met his gaze, dark and unwavering, and for a moment, she felt the weight of his words, a quiet unease settling over her. She sighed. “It’s just some small things.”


    “Really?”


    “Really, Michael.”


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