Marrying my secret admirer after my husband's fake death novel Chapter 82

Chapter 82

“Have you no shame, Edith? That’s my husband! How can you be so at ease with this?“.

Salome’s furious tirade barely fazed Edith, who responded with a cold, mocking smile.

Is that all it takes to make you crack?

Already losing your nerve?

Edith realized she’d finally found a way to fight back–by turning Salome’s own tricks against her.

Putting on her best impression of Salome’s wounded act, Edith looked up at Beckett with wide, innocent eyes. “I just said I’d feel safer if you drove me home. Why would Salome accuse me of being shameless?”

She infused the words with a sweetness that lingered, the kind that made

one’s skin crawl.

Beckett shot Salome a sharp, warning glare. “That’s enough, Salome. It’s late. Go get some rest. I’m just giving Edith a ride home, not ending the world. Stop making a scene.”

Salome’s cheeks flushed red with rage; she looked ready to tear Edith

apart.

Since when did Edith learn to play the delicate victim?

Now she’s pulling the same manipulative, sugar–coated routine–trying to drive a wedge between her and Beckett!

Salome couldn’t stomach it. In her mind, she’d never lost to Edith in any of their battles. She absolutely refused to lose now.

So she played her trump card. “Beckett, my stomach–oh, it hurts so much!”

Edith watched the performance with icy detachment, barely hiding her amusement as Salome cycled from fierce to fragile, and then to feeble

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Chapter 82

and pained.

Spectacular. Absolutely spectacular.

The problem was, Salome had played this card too many times. It was losing its effect.

Beckett called for the housekeeper. “Take care of her.”

Then, with a pointed sigh, he added, “The doctor told you to rest in the hospital, but you insisted on coming home, making a fuss. If anything happens to you, it’s your own fault.”

Salome was left speechless, caught between keeping up her act or dropping it altogether. Her face twisted into a half–frozen mask.

Edith thought, Not even my best oil paintings could capture the drama on Salome’s face right now.

But this wasn’t enough.

Channeling Salome’s usual tactics, Edith gave Beckett a soft, apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault Salome’s upset. Maybe you shouldn’t drive me–I don’t mind taking a taxi. It’s really no trouble.”

She retreated to advance, her tone gentle and self–blaming, but her eyes flicked toward Salome with a sly, triumphant glint–the same look Salome had always used to declare victory.

Beckett took a deep breath, his patience at its end. “Stop apologizing, Edith. This isn’t your fault. I’m definitely driving you. If something happened to you on the way home, I’d never forgive myself.”

Edith had to fight the urge to cringe at his words, but managed to look like she was savoring every syllable.

She gazed at Beckett, Voice as soft as velvet. “You’re so kind.”

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