My coldhearted ex demands a remarriage

Chapter 827:

They were talking, laughing, her smile bright, effortless. She had smiled like that at Kyson. At Daxton. But never at him.

Kristopher squeezed his eyes shut, trying to sharpen the blurry images. The man… He was a minor celebrity. Stewart Lopez? Something like that.

He vaguely remembered meeting Stewart once, back when he visited Lise on set. Stewart had been the male lead—quiet, introverted, stiff in conversation. Kristopher hadn’t thought much of him at the time. Kristopher knew that Carrie was an actress. Did she act with Stewart too?

His mind spun. He recalled Lise on set, her cold indifference to every male actor. Both Lise and Carrie had gotten entangled with him because of his money, but even after their breakup, Lise had remained within his orbit.

But Carrie… While still carrying the title of Mrs. Norris, she had surrounded herself with so-called colleagues and friends, entangling herself with other men.

A sickening anger coiled in his chest. His head pounded, as if his skull were splitting apart.

Kristopher had endured pain before—deep wounds, shattered bones, surgeries without anesthesia. He had gritted his teeth through all of it. But this? This was unbearable.noveldrama

His fingers pressed hard against his temple, tightening into a fist as if he could physically squeeze the pain away. Then, a cool touch. A small, chilled hand covered his own.

A voice—light, emotionless, yet oddly calming—drifted above him. “Here. A sip of cold water might help.” It was Carrie.

Her tone carried no warmth, only thinly veiled impatience. And yet, her voice felt like a breeze cutting through the suffocating heat. Like water trickling over burning skin.

Carrie studied his expression, mistaking his pain for severe heatstroke. She had only meant to hand him the bottle and leave, but when he made no move to take it, irritation flickered across her face.

She twisted the cap open, sat beside him, and pushed the bottle to his lips. “Mr. Norris, could you possibly open your mouth?” she said.

Kristopher stirred, jolted back to reality. He reached for the bottle, but his hand trembled. The water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto him—and onto Carrie. For a second, he froze. He had seen this before. A spill. Aliza’s disgusted expression—fleeting, but unmistakable.

His fiancée had recoiled from him. A sick curiosity curled in his gut. Would Carrie be the same? Would she flinch away, her face twisting in revulsion?

Would she wipe her hands in disgust, pretending not to care while secretly wishing she had never touched him? Would she look at him the way Aliza did?

The thought alone made his chest tighten. He could already see it—Carrie’s face twisting in disgust, her lips pressing together in barely concealed revulsion.

A surge of anger, sharp and unrelenting, crashed over him. His grip on the water bottle tightened—then, with a sudden, violent motion, he hurled it to the ground. “Get lost!” His voice was rough, raw with frustration. “I don’t need your fake sympathy.”

His breathing was uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears. “I had a car accident. I’m not crippled.” His tone turned cutting, almost mocking. “Do you want to pretend to pity me? What is it this time? Money? Shares?”

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