The Ruthless CEO's Revenge Wife-Chapter 180: A Very Very Alone Woman

The shopping bags clinked against each other as the trio made their way through the last stretch of the mall.

Martha was glowing... sunglasses back on like a crown of triumph, two shopping bags in each hand.

Hannah was walking backwards, giddy, holding up her phone for selfies with Jean in the background.

And Jean?

Jean was smiling. A real one.

Her heels clicked steadily on the polished floor as they stopped in front of a cinnamon roll stall that smelled like heaven... warm sugar, soft bread, caramel glaze melting over swirls of cinnamon.

"This," Martha declared dramatically, "is the reward for surviving retail."

"It smells like diabetes," Jean teased.

"It smells like comfort," Hannah corrected. "And we are treating ourselves today."

Before Jean could protest, she found herself standing in front of the glass display, handed a gooey cinnamon roll dripping with icing, the kind that would normally terrify her in public. But today... she felt oddly okay with it.

She brought it closer to her lips, the warmth making her stomach grumble.

Then... A voice.

Sharp.

Familiar.

Cold.

"Well, look at you."

Jean froze mid-bite.

The cinnamon roll remained suspended in her hand, icing beginning to slide slowly down her fingers.

She didn’t turn immediately.

She didn’t need to.

That voice could still split her in half with just four words.

Darla Adams.

Her mother.

Elegant, as always. Hair in a sleek bun. Designer clutch in hand. Lips painted in a perfect mauve curve... that same smile she wore when she tore people apart under the guise of love.

Jean slowly turned.

Darla stood just a few feet away, her gaze sweeping over Jean’s outfit, the bags in her hand, the cinnamon roll.

"My, my. Isn’t this new?" she said, voice syrupy. "Wearing real colors. Eating carbs in public. How very... un-Jean of you. You don’t even realise the bloating around your stomach."

Jean’s jaw tightened, her smile vanishing.

Martha and Hannah turned around, both sensing the shift instantly. Hannah frowned in confusion, but Martha... Martha stepped closer like a lioness sensing danger near her cub.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" Martha asked coolly, slipping her sunglasses down to her nose, eyes narrowing.

Darla’s gaze flicked to her, mildly amused.

"You must be the mother-in-law," she said. "How sweet. You’ve adopted her so well. I just came to say hello."

Jean finally spoke... voice calm, clipped.

"Hello. You can go now."

Darla tsked lightly. "Is that any way to speak to your mother? After everything I’ve done for you?"

Hannah looked between them, feeling angry and uncomfortable. Jean never spoke about her family. But now after her last visit to her house she understood why.

Martha stepped fully between them, her smile like cut glass. "Yes, I’m the mother-in-law. And as Jean’s actual family now, I’ll have to ask you to step back."

Darla’s smile twitched. "Oh, don’t be dramatic."

"I invented dramatic," Martha replied sweetly. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

Jean’s heart pounded. Her hand was still trembling slightly, cinnamon roll forgotten.

But this time... she wasn’t alone.

She didn’t have to stand in front of Darla and pretend to be grateful.

Not anymore.

The tension around the cinnamon roll stall could be sliced with a butter knife.

Martha stood tall and poised, her sunglasses now hanging from the collar of her blazer, her chin raised in polite defiance. Hannah clutched her shopping bag tighter, her brows furrowed as she glanced between the three women — unsure whether to back away or start swinging.

Darla gave a delicate sigh and looked Martha up and down, her tone light, but her words sharp as a blade.

"You know, I’ve always admired women who can pretend they belong in high society."

Martha blinked once, slowly.

"It takes talent," Darla continued, voice like silk over steel. "All that effort... the designer knockoffs, the overly rehearsed etiquette, the charity luncheons just to be seen. It must be exhausting, keeping up the illusion that you’re more than just a housewife who got lucky with a wealthy husband or in your case a son."

Hannah gasped softly.

Martha tilted her head... calm, unreadable. But Jean saw it.

The flicker. That quiet sting behind her cool gaze.

And something inside Jean snapped.

She stepped forward, past Martha, voice steady but vibrating with fury.

"Don’t you dare talk to her like that."

Darla’s eyes flicked to her daughter, amused.

"Oh, Jean. Still sensitive, I see."

"No," Jean said coldly. "I’m not. I’m angry."

The words came out like fire.

"Angry that you, of all people, have the nerve to talk about class when you’ve spent your entire life manipulating people to maintain an image that’s as fake as your compliments."

Darla’s smile thinned.

"You used my pain, my silence, my obedience and twisted it into something convenient. You made me feel like I was never enough. But guess what?"

Jean’s voice didn’t tremble. Not anymore.

"Martha Kingsley may not have been born into wealth, but she has more class in one finger than you’ll ever have in your entire life."

Darla’s eyes flared.

But Jean wasn’t done.

"She’s kind. She’s honest. She doesn’t tear down other women to make herself feel important."

A breath.

"And most importantly she doesn’t look at me like I’m a burden."

Silence.

Darla opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Not this time.

Not when Jean, for the first time in years, had finally stood tall not just for herself, but for someone who deserved to be defended.

Martha gently placed a hand on Jean’s shoulder, pride glowing in her eyes.

"I think that’s enough sugar for one day," she said, her voice light but firm. "Come on, girls."

Jean didn’t look back.

Neither did Hannah, who gave Darla the kind of glare only a Gen Z with a phone full of blackmail-level photos could deliver.

They walked away as a unit... three women, strong and unbothered, leaving behind a woman who suddenly looked very, very alone.

They didn’t speak much on the walk from the cinnamon roll stall to the café.

Jean’s pulse was still pounding in her ears, the ghost of her mother’s words clinging to her like smoke but stronger than the pain was the strange lightness that came after. The weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying had finally cracked.

And she wasn’t alone.

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