?Chapter 1192:


    “Marc, are you here by yourself?” Sharon’s lips curved slightly. “You didn’t dare bring Stel, did you? You’re scared she’ll hear William’s name—or worse, that someone familiar might remind her of everything you’ve tried to make her forget.”


    The muscles in Marc’s jaw tightened, his patience thinning. “You’re talking nonsense. Stel stayed home because she’s not feeling well, not because of your wild assumptions.”


    Sharon took a step closer, her voice softening even as it sharpened with each word. “You and I both know the truth. You’ve been feeding her lies, keeping her close by hiding the past. Tell me, Marc—how long do you think this illusion of happiness canst?”


    Two years had passed since Ste divorced him, yet Sharon could hardly believe he was still clinging to her like a man chained to his own regret.


    “Be honest with yourself,” she pressed. “Is this love, or are you just unable to ept that she’s no longer yours—that she stopped loving you a long time ago?”


    Marc’s breath caught, sharp and uneven. It felt as if an invisible hand had reached into his chest and twisted hard, leaving him gasping for air.


    Every word Sharon had thrown at him still echoed in his mind—merciless, precise, true. He couldn’t deny any of it, not when every usation mirrored the guilt festering in his own heart.


    Panic wed up his throat. Without another word, he brushed past her. His steps were unsteady, almost frantic. The clinking of sses, the low music, the murmurs of polite conversation—everything blurred together as he stumbled out of the banquet hall.


    He didn’t look back.


    And Sharon, standing in his wake, didn’t feel victorious. If anything, the weight in her chest only grew heavier.


    She didn’t want to destroy him. She wanted to save Ste.


    Because Ste was still trapped—blissfully unaware, caught in the illusion Marc had built around her. And Sharon couldn’t just stand by and watch it happen.


    Her gaze drifted through the crowd, searching for someone—until itnded on a familiar figure near the far corner of the room. A distinguished elderly man, surrounded by a small group of admirers, his silver hair gleaming beneath the chandelier’s soft light.


    Dr. Charles Robinson.


    Your next chapter awaits g?lnσν??ls?c?m


    The name alone carried weight—a world-renowned expert in neuroscience and memory recovery.


    The very reason Sharon hade to this event.


    Her pulse steadied as determination reced the ache in her chest. She set her wine ss down,posed herself, and made her way across the hall.


    “Good evening, Dr. Robinson,” she said warmly when there was a lull in conversation. “I hope I’m not intruding. I’m Sharon Mitchell. I’ve long admired your work on cognitive rehabilitation.”


    Charles turned, his eyes kind behind his sses. He offered a polite nod and clinked his ss lightly with hers. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Mitchell. You’re very kind.”


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