The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 585

**TITLE: Military 585**
**Chapter 585: Night Of Bitter Regret**

That fateful night, Laura found herself weeping uncontrollably in Weston’s embrace, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt as if it were her only lifeline in a turbulent sea. Each sob seemed to drain her of strength, until finally, the exhaustion of her emotional turmoil pulled her into a deep, troubled sleep.

Meanwhile, Weston remained wide awake, his mind racing as dawn approached. A tightness gripped his chest, and each breath felt as if it were caught beneath an unbearable weight, one that he couldn’t shake off.

If only he had taken a moment to truly see her, to notice the subtle signs that hinted at her pain, he would have realized that the day marked the anniversary of her mother’s passing.

Had he truly cared for her, he might have recognized the tempest that raged within her after their breakup, the quiet desperation for support she so desperately needed.

The issues that plagued her were ones he could have alleviated with a simple act of kindness; accompanying her to her mother’s grave would have cost him nothing, yet he had chosen silence and inaction.

Instead, he reveled in the warmth of her love, basking in her unwavering devotion as if it were an entitlement bestowed upon him at birth.

And when she finally turned away, his prideful heart foolishly believed that the one who would suffer the most from this separation would undoubtedly be her.

How utterly ridiculous—how laughably absurd.

It was no surprise that she rejected him time and again, no wonder she was unwilling to allow her heart to be ensnared by him once more.

With every new piece of her past that he unearthed, his self-hatred burrowed deeper, festering like an untreated wound.

In the stillness of the night, he whispered into the darkness, “How can I ever make up to you?” Yet, even in the confines of his own mind, the answer remained an unsettling void, echoing back at him with cruel indifference.

Morning arrived, and Laura awoke to a dull fog that pressed heavily behind her eyelids. The vibrant cocktails from the previous night flitted through her memory like distant neon lights, surely the culprits for the lingering haze that clouded her thoughts.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow around the room. Laura stretched, her spine arching like a cat awakening from slumber, before she pushed herself upright on the mattress, the familiar surroundings slowly coming into focus.

It took her a moment to register that she was in her own room—the comforting scent of lilac linen enveloped her, the framed cityscape hung on the wall, and her slippers awaited her by the nightstand, a small beacon of normalcy.

Yet, the memories of the previous night were shrouded in a thick fog. She recalled the bar, Weston’s unexpected arrival, and the surreal moment when he had effortlessly lifted her over his shoulder, his car filled with the rich aroma of buttery leather.

But what happened after that was a blank slate. Sitting there, she could only surmise that Weston had safely deposited her at home before slipping away into the night.

With a sense of urgency, she shuffled into the en-suite bathroom. The mirror reflected her disheveled appearance, and she flinched at the sight—both eyes swollen to the size of walnuts, lids red and tender.

After washing her face and changing into fresh clothes, she caught a glimpse of the clock, and it felt like a dagger to her chest. She was late for work. As she thumbed her phone to call the office, she nudged the bedroom door open, a sense of panic rising within her.

“Emily, can you push the morning meeting back by an hour? I—uh—have something to take care of. I’ll be in late,” she stammered, her voice betraying her anxiety.

“Understood, Ms. Wentworth,” came Emily’s crisp response from the other end of the line.

“By the way, the briefing materials—” Emily began, but Laura was abruptly cut off.

“What are you talking about?” Confusion knitted her brow as she tried to decipher his words.

“Last night, you didn’t do anything scandalous. You just held on to me and kept calling me ‘Mom,’” he said, his voice light.

Laura stood frozen in the hallway, a statue caught in time. The memory of the previous night crashed into her with disjointed clarity, vivid enough to paint her cheeks the color of late-autumn maple leaves.

Weston turned back toward the kitchen, the soft overhead light illuminating the disciplined lines of his back. Steam curled from the pot he had left simmering on the stove, a quiet invitation that urged him deeper into the room. “Did I really call you… Mom?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Weston lowered his gaze, as if concealing something tender behind his lashes. He lifted a bowl from the stove, its broth shimmering amber in the light, and gently placed it into Laura’s hands, still warm from the flame. “Drink this first. You’ll feel better,” he instructed.

Laura opened her mouth, the question lingering on her tongue. “About last night—”

“Drink the soup first,” Weston interjected, his tone gentle yet firm, leaving no room for argument.

She frowned at his insistence, but she had no desire to argue over something so trivial. With a resigned sigh, she lifted the bowl and drank every last drop, the heat soothing her stomach like a calming tide.

“Now can you finally tell me? Did I truly call you Mom last night?” she pressed, her curiosity piqued.

“Would I really lie about something so absurd?” Weston countered, raising an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes.

Laura fell silent for a moment, then drew a steadying breath. “Besides calling you Mom, did I do anything else?”