Chapter 277 That Line in My Heart Never Dies
Chapter 277 That Line in My Heart Never Dies
Matthew arrived at the office close to noon.
Nico was waiting at the door, holding a document. He started to speak, then stopped.
"What is it?"
"Mr. Gonzalez, I pushed back your two morning meetings. Also..." Nico hesitated. "Stay off social media."
Matthew ignored him and walked straight into his office, closing the door behind him.
He sat down and opened his computer.
There were over thirty unread emails in his inbox. He didn't click on any of them.
He opened his browser.
The trending topics were still up.
#Live coverage of the Hubbard family reunion dinner!
#Matthew's ex-wife is actually a Hubbard family heiress!
#Major plot twist for Marentis elite family's illegitimate child!
Every headline screamed for attention.
He didn't click on those.
He opened an insider forum instead.
This forum wasn't public. Registration required real-name verification and asset review. Users were almost all from Marentis business circles. Usually they discussed mergers, financing, and policy trends.
The pinned post at the top read: "[Popcorn time] Family reunion dinner recap — who thinks Matthew and Abigail are getting back together?"
Matthew's finger stopped on the mouse.
He clicked in.
The post already had over two hundred replies:
[Getting back together? Not a chance. You know what Ethan's like. His sister got ignored for three years — you think he'd let her go back to that? Hell no.]
[Let me be blunt. Everyone knows what Matthew did during those three years. If the Hubbard family were in this position, forget getting back together — I wouldn't even let him through the front door.]
[I was there yesterday. Matthew stood outside the side entrance all night. Yeah, you read that right, all night. Never went in, just stood there like some kind of greeter.]
Someone replied: [Lol, at least greeters get uniforms. He didn't even have a name tag.]
[Jesus, Chris called him a greeter to his face and he didn't even respond.]
[Really? Chris actually said that?]
[Yes, my friend was standing right there. Sophia even said she wanted to hang a 'Welcome' sign on him.]
The next dozen comments were filled with laughing emojis and reactions.
Matthew stared at the screen, his finger motionless.
He kept scrolling.
Someone had posted pictures.
Photos from the banquet. Not polished official shots, but casual phone photos — slightly crooked angles, but the faces were clear.
First photo: Abigail standing by the dessert table, surrounded by three young men. One in a gray suit was bending down to talk to her. She had her head tilted, listening, a faint smile on her lips.
Someone commented below: [Isn't that Percy's son? The one pulling in over a hundred mil a year? He and the Hubbard heiress would make a good match.]
Second photo: Chris with his head lowered, fastening the clasp of Abigail's bracelet, his finger hooked around her wrist. Abigail's face was turned slightly to the side, light falling across her profile.
Someone commented: [Look how natural that is. Definitely not the first time.]
[I'm putting money on Chris. Half a million. Dead serious.]
[Hold on, there's more.]
Third photo: Dashiell standing to Abigail's left, handing her a glass of water. His body leaned slightly forward, his gaze resting on her face.
[And here's the quiet, dependable type. Dashiell's the dangerous one — never makes a scene, but he's always there.]
[The Blackwell family's no joke either. Look up Redwood Valley Hospital — they've got just as much pull as the Gonzalez family.]
[So what was Matthew thinking? She's got all these options — why would she go back and put up with him?]
The last reply had been pushed to the top.
[Bottom line: Matthew's biggest mistake was treating gold like gravel. Now someone else sees what she's worth, and he's finally hurting. But it's too late. She's not going back to being undervalued.]
Matthew's gaze moved away from the screen.
He leaned back in his chair. The overhead light was harsh and bright.
He picked up the mouse again and enlarged the second photo.
Chris standing next to Abigail, fastening her bracelet.
He stared at that photo for a long time.
Then he opened the image editor and cropped Chris out.
Only Abigail remained in the frame.
The champagne-colored dress, hair falling over both shoulders, that small pearl hairpin behind her ear.
She was smiling.
Not at the camera, but at something Chris had said. The smile was subtle, just a curve at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were bright.
Three years of marriage.
Over a thousand days.
She had never smiled at him like that.
Matthew saved the cropped photo to his desktop.
Then he closed all the windows.
All afternoon, he didn't get a single thing done.
At eight in the evening, Matthew drove home.
He didn't go to the Gonzalez Mansion, but to the house he and Abigail had shared.
He hadn't moved out after the divorce.
The key turned in the lock, the door swung open, and the entryway stayed dark.
The motion sensor was broken.
When Abigail lived here, if something broke, it would be fixed the next day. He never knew who took care of it.
He flipped the hallway switch. The light came on.
The living room was large. The sofa, coffee table, TV stand were all still there, exactly where they'd always been.
But the armchair across the room, where a book used to sit open, was empty now.
He walked to the kitchen doorway.
Abigail used to start cooking at six every evening. The sound of the range hood would drift all the way up to the second-floor study. He used to find it irritating.
Now the kitchen was silent. The stovetop was spotless and bare.
In the corner was a wooden ladle in a ceramic holder.
She had used that.
He walked in and picked up the ladle. The handle was worn smooth from use.
During those three years, she had cooked over a thousand meals in this kitchen.
How many had he actually eaten?
Five? Ten?
Maybe less.
Matthew put the ladle back, walked out of the kitchen, and went upstairs.
He pushed open the master bedroom door. The bed was made, the comforter neatly folded — the maid had been through.
A scarf lay in the nightstand drawer.
It was Abigail's.
She'd forgotten it when she packed. He hadn't let anyone throw it away.
He took the scarf out. The fabric was pilling slightly, the color plain — nothing expensive.
He lowered his head and breathed in.
Her scent was gone.
His phone buzzed.
It was a message from Nico.
[Mr. Gonzalez, they replied. Your grandfather is free Thursday afternoon and can see you. Want me to confirm?]
Matthew set his phone back on the nightstand without answering.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, head down.
Three years ago, he had slept in this bedroom.
He used to sleep on the right side, Abigail on the left, with at least five feet between them.
She never crossed that invisible line, and neither did he.
Now the whole bed was his.
The left side, the right side, the space in between — all of it.
But he would have traded everything to have that distance back.