The Abandoned Wife's Second Chance (Scarlett and Jasper) novel Chapter 90

(Scarlett’s POV)

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Soon after Virginia walks out, James and Blair follow behind her.

Jasper hesitates for a second, but I chase him away not wanting any part of the chaos that follows him. The further he stays away from me and Lily, the more peaceful and calm our days will be.

Pouring myself a cup of tea, I curl up on the couch. Lily has already fallen asleep, worn out from the excitement. Snow falls past my windows, and the apartment feels peaceful for the

first time in weeks.

I don’t realize when I drift off.

I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror, adjusting the Burberry scarf Jasper bought me around my face. My reflection looks younger, hopeful. I’m wearing the cream–colored dress I bought for our first Christmas together–the one that made Jasper’s eyes widen when he saw

1. me.

In the dream, I feel beautiful. Cherished.

The scene shifts, and suddenly I’m walking down Pine Street with Jasper beside me. The sidewalks are crowded with families dressed in their finest clothes, children running between their parents‘ legs, the air filled with laughter and celebration.

Jasper’s hand finds mine, warm and steady. He’s wearing the navy suit that brings out his eyes, the one he claimed was too fancy but wore anyway because he knew I loved it.

“Are you happy?” he asks, stopping to look at me.

In the dream, the question doesn’t carry the weight of all our broken promises, all the tears, all the nights I cried myself to sleep. It’s simple, pure, asked by a man who genuinely wants to

know.

“Yes,” I whisper, and I mean it.

We find a table at the little restaurant we discovered by accident that first Christmas. The owner recognizes us, welcomes us back with warm smiles and free appetizers. The familiar smells of cardamom and nutmeg wrap around us like a hug.

Jasper orders for both of us–he remembers I don’t like my pasta with tomatoes, remembers I always want extra grilled chicken. When the food arrives, steam rising from the colorful dishes, he begins filling my plate first.

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<Chapter 90

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“Try this,” he says, spooning alfredo sauce over my pasta. “The owner said it’s his grandmother’s recipe.”

I reach for my own spoon, but Jasper catches my wrist gently.

“Let me.”

There’s something in his voice, something tender and careful, that makes my heart skip. He spins his fork with paste, making sure to get the perfect amount–not too much sauce, a piece of tender chicken, a dice of olive.

“Open,” he says softly.

I part my lips, and he feeds me with the same concentration he used to reserve for his most important cases. His eyes never leave my face, watching for my reaction.

The food is incredible–rich and filling, warming me from the inside out. But it’s not the taste that makes my eyes fill with tears.

It’s the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m precious. Like feeding me is an honor, not a chore.

“Good?” he asks, thumb brushing sauce from the corner of my mouth.

I can’t speak, so I just nod. He smiles–that real smile, the one I fell in love with–and prepares

another bite.

We sit there for what feels like hours, him feeding me bite after careful bite, both of us lost in a

bubble of tenderness.

The warmth of that moment, the connection crackling between us like electricity, stays with me even as other parts of the dream fade. Virginia’s face flickers at the edges of my consciousness, trying to intrude on my happiness.

But I shove it away, refusing to let her invade our space. No, not here. Not this moment. Here, it’s just Jasper and me and the taste of his love on my tongue.

1 wake up to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and Lily shaking my shoulder.

“Mama, wake up! It’s morning!”

But I’m still caught between sleeping and waking, still feeling the ghost of Jasper’s fingers against my lips, still tasting cardamom and love and all the things we used to be.

My hand goes to my cheek, where dream–Jasper touched me. My skin burns, his touch lingering even long after the dream.

For just a moment, lying there in my bed with morning light painting everything gold, I let

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<Chapter 90

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myself miss him. Miss us. Miss the man who used to feed me with his hands like I was precious, and worthy of his cherishing.

Then Lily bounces on my bed again, and reality crashes back.

“Come on, Mama! We need to get a Christmas tree!”

I sit up, pushing the dream away. I won’t think about him. I’ll only think about moving forward, about building my future and securing Lily’s as well.

But as I reach for the Burberry scarf, my fingers tremble slightly.

Some memories, it turns out, are harder to bury than one might think.

Dorian calls while I’m making breakfast for Lily.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night,” he says without greeting.

I pause, spatula halfway to flipping Lily’s pancake. “Oh?”

“You’re right. I was pushing too hard about the expansion.” His voice sounds different–softer, and less business–like. “Your bakery is special because it embodies your vision. I should have respected that from the beginning.”

Something loosens in my chest. “Thank you for understanding.”

“I still think you’re incredibly talented, and you can go far if you consider Andrew’s suggestions. But I’ll support your decision, and if focusing on your original bakery is what you want, then so be it.”

“Thank you, Dorian. Really. You’ve helped me in more ways than I can count…”

After we hang up, I feel lighter. Like a weight I didn’t know I was carrying has been lifted off my shoulders. For the first time in weeks, my path is clear.

Xmas is tomorrow. My breath clouds as I exhale, watching the Christmas lights twinkle on the buildings outside. Snow dusts the sidewalks, and across the street, carolers are singing “Silent Night.”

Lily bounces into my bedroom, already dressed in her new red and white dress.

“Mama, when are we getting the tree?”

“In a few minutes, habibti.” I pull her onto the bed for morning cuddles. “Let me get ready.”

A few hours later, a decorated Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner of my living room, its soft glow casting shadows across the walls.

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The house is warm, the kitchen smelling like cinnamon and molasses. The heat of the oven fights against the cold creeping in through the cracks of the window, as we mold gingerbread

cookies.

Lily’s tiny hands are covered in flour, smudges of dough sticking to her cheeks as she presses down on the gingerbread cutter. She giggles, her high–pitched voice cutting through the stillness of the night.

“Mama, look! It’s a gingerbread man!” She holds up her creation. I praise it as beautiful, though it’s more like a lopsided blob than anything resembling a gingerbread man.

A familiar ache settles in my heart. Last year, it was just the two of us. This year too, it’s…

just the two of us. Again.

I take a deep breath, running my fingers through my hair. Lily doesn’t notice my state. She’s too absorbed in her work, adding sprinkles to her gingerbread man, her hands shaking with

excitement as if every single detail matters.

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