Threesome With My Husband And His Brother のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 101 - チャプター 110

For the next four days Grace did not leave the penthouse.Diaz had not specifically instructed her not to. But she had been precise about the increased communication traffic in the Volkov network and she had been precise about the Torres problem and Grace understood, without being told directly, that the period between the arrest and whatever came next was the most dangerous stretch they had been through. Not because anything had happened. Because nothing had happened yet.That kind of quiet had a shape to it that she had learned to recognise.Emma came on the second day with a bag of groceries and the expression of someone who had decided to be useful rather than emotional about the situation, which Grace was grateful for. Rachel called each morning with legal updates, brief and professional, the two of them rebuilding something between them slowly and from scratch, with the careful deliberateness of people who understood that what they were rebuilding was not what they had before.L

The SIM card from the wedding dress contained four hundred and twelve audio files.Clarke's team had extracted and catalogued them overnight. They arrived at the penthouse the following morning on a secure drive, each file labelled with a date and a duration, stretching from the morning of Grace's wedding all the way to the week before she had left the dress in storage — which was the same week she had faked the amnesia and the whole shape of everything had changed.Seven years of her life. Organised into four hundred and twelve files.Grace sat at the kitchen table and looked at the folder on the laptop screen for a long moment before she opened it.Aiden was beside her. He had not asked whether she wanted him there. He had simply stayed and she had not told him to go and that was how it worked between them now. Decisions made by what neither of them said.She clicked on the first file.Her own voice. The hotel suite on the morning of the wedding. She was talking to Janet, the dressm

They stayed like that for a while.Grace's hands still cupped around his face. His hands still covering hers. The city still moving outside. Neither of them in a hurry to be anywhere other than exactly where they were.Eventually she lowered her hands. He let her. She took his hands instead, both of them, and she held them and she looked at him properly in the way she had been practising for months — not searching for something, not checking for damage, just looking. Just seeing him as he was."You were also manipulated," she said. "You were twenty-eight years old and your brother stood in front of you and lied to you. Precisely and deliberately and knowing exactly what it would cost you to believe him." She paused. "That is not your fault."Aiden looked at her.He did not answer immediately. He had the quality, in these moments, of someone who respected a thing too much to respond to it quickly. Like the response required the same care as the thing itself."I know," he said finally.

Diaz arrived within forty minutes and took the box of letters away in an evidence bag with the care of someone who understood that what she was carrying was not just legal documentation but the private correspondence of a woman who had never been allowed to read it.She said nothing unnecessary. She confirmed the chain of custody with Lily, who had brought the box directly from their mother's house without stopping anywhere or telling anyone. She thanked Lily in the brief, genuine way of someone who meant it. She left.The apartment felt different after she went. Lighter in one way and heavier in another, the way it always felt when evidence left your hands and became the property of a process larger than yourself.Lily stayed for another hour. She sat in the kitchen with Grace and Aiden and they ordered food nobody was particularly hungry for and Grace asked about the university, about the essay, about the difficult lecturer, and Lily answered in the willing way of someone who unders

Grace read the message three times.Each time it said the same thing. My name is Isabel Reyes. I was sold by the same broker. And Mason Hartwell was in the room when they did it.Eleven words that landed differently from the eleven million responses that had arrived before them. The other messages — the sympathy, the solidarity, the outrage, the women who wrote I thought I was alone and the women who wrote this happened to me too — all of those mattered. She would not minimise them. But this one was different in kind. This one was not a response. This one was evidence.She showed it to Aiden without speaking. He read it. She watched his face move through recognition, then gravity, then the particular stillness that meant he was thinking rather than feeling."You need to call Diaz," he said."I know." She was already typing a reply to Isabel. Careful, unhurried, the tone she used when she needed someone who was frightened to understand that the person on the other side of the screen wa