Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 391: No Trust Left for Mira

Mira’s lips moved, but only a choked sob came out. She tried again, stammering desperately, "J-Jack, please... listen... my ankle really was hurt... I c-couldn’t walk... Dexter carried me because... because I was in pain... I’m telling the truth, I swear on our children..."

Her voice cracked completely on the last word. Fresh tears poured down her cheeks, mixing with the red mark of the slap.

I stepped forward, raising both hands in a show of anxious concern, voice pitched perfectly — worried, earnest, slightly shaky.

"No — Jack, please, listen to me. It’s not like that at all. You’re misunderstanding everything. We’re innocent. Nothing happened, I swear on my life..."

Jack turned on me like he wanted to tear my throat out.

"Oh, you two dogs — man and bitch in heat!" he snarled. "You think I’m blind? Her ankle was ’hurting’ so badly she couldn’t walk, so you had to carry her like some slutty bride on her honeymoon? Then why the fuck is there not even a scratch on it now?!"

He bent down dramatically, grabbed Mira’s ankle roughly, and yanked it forward so everyone could see. The skin was flawless — smooth, unmarked, no swelling, no redness, no scrape, nothing.

"Look at this!" he shouted, voice cracking with triumph and rage. "Not a single fucking mark! Make a better excuse when you’re lying next time, you filthy pair of liars!"

Mira stood frozen, shoulders shaking violently. She didn’t yell back. She didn’t offer another stammered defense. She simply broke.

Silent, wrenching sobs tore through her body as she stared at the grass, tears streaming endlessly from her chin.

The crowd’s mocking stares pressed down on her from every side — whispers of "shameless," "whore," "poor Jack," soft laughter from a few drunk guests. Her crying was so raw, so utterly pitiful that for one brief, strange second, even I felt a tiny pang of something almost like guilt.

Almost.

Because this was perfect.

Jack spat once at her feet, then turned on his heel and stormed off toward the house, Bill casting one last disgusted look at his mother before following.

The guests began to drift away in clusters, already pulling out phones, already texting the gossip.

Mira remained rooted to the spot on the dew-damp lawn, trembling like a leaf caught in the dying breeze. The red handprint on her cheek glowed angrily under the lantern light, a cruel signature of everything that had just shattered in front of dozens of witnesses.

Tears carved glistening tracks down her face, dripping silently onto the grass at her bare feet. She looked small—smaller than I had ever seen her—hollowed out, utterly alone in the widening circle of judgmental stares.

I caught Angela’s eye across the short distance. A single, deliberate wink. She understood instantly.

Angela moved without hesitation. She crossed the lawn in quick, soft steps, her silk dupatta fluttering behind her like a gentle wing.

When she reached Mira, she didn’t speak at first—just wrapped both arms around her in a fierce, enveloping hug. Mira stiffened for half a second, then collapsed against her, face buried in Angela’s shoulder. The sobs that had been silent until now broke free in muffled, wrenching waves.

Angela held her tighter, one hand stroking slowly down Mira’s back, murmuring soft, wordless comforts into her hair. The crowd watched—some with pity, most with thinly veiled disdain—but Angela didn’t care. She simply stood there like a shield until Mira’s crying gradually quieted to shaky, hiccuping breaths.

Mira finally lifted her head, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears. She searched Angela’s face with raw, desperate hope.

"Don’t you... Don’t you suspect me too?" Her voice cracked on every word. "Don’t you think... that I really do have something... with your husband?"

Angela shook her head slowly, eyes steady and kind.

"I trust my husband," she said simply. No elaboration. No defensiveness. Just quiet certainty.

Mira’s lips parted on a silent, broken exhale. "Trust..." she whispered, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. Trust. The thing no one had offered her tonight. Not Jack, who had branded her a slut in front of everyone.

Not Bill, who had looked at her with disgust and walked away. Not even Nicole—her own daughter—who had stood frozen beside her brother, eyes wide with betrayal and shame.

They had all called her whore, slut, a shameless. The words still echoed in her ears, chilling her heart until it felt like ice cracking underfoot.

Angela cupped Mira’s uninjured cheek gently, thumb brushing away a fresh tear.

"Sister... Mira... let’s leave here," she said softly. "If we stay any longer, we’ll only be an eyesore. Nothing good can come from standing here like this."

Mira’s gaze drifted across the lawn—toward Bill and Nicole, who stood together near the edge of the light, arms crossed, faces closed off. Then to Jack, who leaned against a pillar with a bottle in his hand, staring at her like she was something filthy he wanted scraped off his shoe.

"My children..." Mira’s voice trembled. "They need me..."

Angela squeezed her shoulders. "Sister, I’m not telling you to abandon them. Never. I’m just saying... let’s calm down. All of us. Give the night time to breathe. Then we can talk, we can explain, we can try again when the anger has cooled. Right now... right now they’re too hurt to hear you."

Mira stared at her children for a long moment. Then something inside her seemed to give way—not surrender, exactly, but a weary, exhausted acceptance.

"I understand," she whispered.

She wiped her face roughly with the edge of her dupatta, smearing tears and kohl into dark streaks. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, she walked toward Bill and Nicole.

They both tensed as she approached.

Mira stopped at a respectful distance away. Her voice was small, hoarse from crying.

"Take care of yourselves," she said. "Please... don’t do anything dangerous. Eat properly. Sleep. Call me if you need anything... even if it’s just to yell at me again."

Bill’s jaw clenched; he looked away. Nicole bit her lip hard enough to leave a white mark, eyes shining but refusing to cry.

Mira turned to Jack last.

"Jack..." Her voice faltered. "I’m leaving them in your care."

Jack scoffed—a harsh, dismissive sound, like he was shooing away a stray dog.

"Get out of my sight," he muttered, turning his back.

A fresh tear slipped down Mira’s cheek. She didn’t wipe it away this time. She simply turned and walked back toward us—toward Angela, toward me—her bare feet silent on the grass.

The night had fully fallen now. The lanterns seemed dimmer, the air cooler, heavier with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and distant rain. Most of the guests had drifted to the side or toward their cars; the lawn felt vast and empty.