The call came while I was in labor.

Bartholomew Delgado's voice was calm, almost bored. "Sophie Simmons, I've been having an affair."

"Let's get divorced before the baby's born."

"Maddie's young. She can't handle the gossip that comes with being the other woman."

"I need to make her my wife."

"And don't think you can use the child to trap me."

"You of all people should understand—a child born unloved only suffers."

I looked at the photo he'd sent. Nodded like a good girl.

No hysterics this time. No screaming, no begging.

I didn't tell him that his precious little darling was an escort with HIV.

Or that after all the time he'd spent in her bed, he probably wouldn't survive the thirty-day cooling-off period before our divorce was finalized.

——

Bartholomew came to deliver the divorce papers in person.

I'd just given birth. The delivery had nearly killed me—I was barely conscious, clinging to life by a thread.

He looked at my ashen face and frowned.

Not with concern. Not with tenderness.

Just irritation that I'd made a decision without his permission.

"I told you this child wasn't supposed to be born."

"Maddie doesn't like competition for my attention."

I gazed down at the sleeping infant in my arms and managed a pale smile.

"Sorry. Your call came too late."

"By the time you were proposing to Madeline Pruitt, I was already on the operating table."

The baby wasn't due today. Not according to schedule.

But Madeline had sent me a dead rat in a box. The shock sent me into early labor.

I'd called Bartholomew countless times from the hospital. Not once did he pick up.

Then, as they wheeled me into the operating room, fireworks exploded outside the window.

I squinted through the glass.

Bartholomew had spent millions on a proposal spectacular for his mistress.

Rose petals carpeting the ground. Fireworks painting the sky.

And there, spelled out against the darkness in a swarm of drones:

Madeline Pruitt, I love you.

I gave birth to our child to the sound of those celebrations.

The hospital issued critical condition notices. Multiple times. I called until my phone died. No one answered.

In the end, I signed the surgical consent form myself. Hands shaking. Teeth clenched.

The timing was almost funny—he showed up the moment the baby was born.

Not because he was worried.

Because he wanted me to sign the papers. Wanted me to take the child and disappear so his mistress could take my place.

I swallowed a sigh.

Forced a smile.

Reached for the divorce agreement.

When I sat up, I pulled at the incision on my abdomen. Fresh blood bloomed through the gauze.

Bartholomew's frown deepened—not at the blood, but at the inconvenience.

"Sophie, don't bother playing the victim with me."

"I'm not heartless. I'll make sure you're compensated."

"Sign quietly, and I'll pay child support in full upfront. Enough for you both to live comfortably."

My pen hovered over the page.

I studied his cold, indifferent face and felt... nothing.

Maybe I'd simply run out of tears.

I remembered the first time I'd discovered his affair. I'd wept. Begged. Climbed onto the windowsill with one foot dangling over the edge.

He'd watched me—watched his wife threatening to jump—and shrugged.

"Sophie, stop crying. I haven't felt anything for you in a long time."

"Once, your tears might have moved me."

"Now? They just make me sick."

That night, Madeline's voice had whined through his phone, demanding he come back. He'd left without a backward glance.

They left me there to cry myself unconscious.

I wept for what felt like hours.

And finally understood just how ruthless a man could be once his heart had turned.

Refusing to accept defeat, I threw myself into investigating Madeline Pruitt with the desperate resolve of someone ready to drag everyone down with her.

I wanted to keep fighting.

I wanted the world to see Bartholomew Delgado's true, hideous face.

But the moment I saw Madeline's photograph—

All my hatred, all my resentment, evaporated in an instant.

Because I recognized her immediately.

The pure, untouchable goddess Bartholomew worshipped was a former patient of mine—an HIV carrier I'd once treated.

Bartholomew had a congenital heart condition.

If he contracted the virus, he could die at any moment.

In that instant, I let go.

Heaven would exact its own price from every faithless, heartless man. All I had to do was give fate a gentle push at the right moment.

So I stopped fighting. Stopped making scenes.

I focused on my pregnancy and played the role of the perfect, gracious Mrs. Delgado.

Then I waited, quietly, for the day Bartholomew Delgado would die.

I must have drifted off, because his impatient voice snapped me back.

He assumed I couldn't bear to leave. His knuckles rapped the desk in irritation.

"Sophie, what's the holdup now?"

"Did you think pushing out a baby would make me see you differently?"

"Let me be clear—I don't love you. And I could never love any child you bore me."

"If you won't sign willingly, I'll file for divorce myself. And I'll make sure your child inherits the same miserable life you had!"

Of course. The people who know you best always know exactly where to cut deepest.

When I was eighteen, my parents divorced.

My father forced my mother out with nothing, then publicly announced he was severing all ties with me.

I wasn't allowed to carry his surname. Wasn't entitled to a cent of his inheritance. Wasn't permitted any connection to him whatsoever.

Abandoned by my own father, I became the laughingstock of our social circle.

The girl everyone mocked. The one they whispered about and shut out.

Back then, only Bartholomew stayed by my side.

He walked me to and from school every single day, persistent and unwavering.

He stepped in front of me whenever someone tried to hurt me.

When I was at my lowest, drowning in despair, he told me:

"Sophie, you're the best person I know."

"Even if the whole world abandons you, I'll always be here."

"I love you. And I'll spend my life giving you the happy, whole family you deserve."

For that promise, I changed my entire future.

I abandoned literature for medicine, determined to cure his condition.

I risked my life standing beside him through the brutal war for his inheritance.

I gave up my career and my ambitions to stay home, nurturing my body for pregnancy.

I believed that after surviving all that hardship, sweetness would finally come.

I never imagined that while I was pregnant, Bartholomew—unable to control his urges—would fall into Madeline Pruitt's bed.

When I confronted him, there was no guilt on his face. No shame at his betrayal.

He simply looked at me with that calm, detached expression and said:

"I can't help it, Sophie. I didn't want things to turn out this way."

"But that day, when I saw those stretch marks crawling across your belly... something in me recoiled."

"I can't feel any desire for you anymore. But I'm still a man. I still have needs."

"And Maddie—she gives me a thrill I've never experienced before."

"So it's only right that I give her the status and respect she deserves."

The Delgado family had iron-clad rules about such things, and Bartholomew had always prided himself on his moral discipline.

He looked down on men who kept mistresses, who tangled themselves in sordid affairs.

So he did the "honorable" thing—he asked me for a divorce outright.

At the time, I was barely pregnant.

And to get what I wanted—

To watch Bartholomew Delgado pay the price with my own eyes—

I swallowed every humiliation.

Even when he paraded Madeline Pruitt at galas for all the world to see.

Even when he called me a clingy, dried-up hag in front of every camera and microphone in the city.

I endured it all.

For this exact moment.

I picked up the pen and signed my name on the divorce papers without hesitation.

Right on cue, Madeline's call came through, her sugary voice oozing through the speaker.

"Bartholomew, aren't you done yet?"

"I've already changed and I'm waiting for you..."

"Don't tell me you've gone soft because of the baby. You're not having second thoughts about the divorce, are you?"

"If that's the case, I'll never speak to you again!"

Bartholomew's breath hitched as he stared at the provocative photo she'd sent. His voice dropped, husky with want.

He smiled at the screen—that same careful, coaxing smile he used to give me—now lavished on his new prize.

Then he snatched the divorce papers from my hands and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The edge of the paper sliced a thin, stinging line across my palm.

The crash startled Noah into wailing.

The doctor rushed over to check on the commotion.

Bartholomew never looked back. Not once.

I let out a quiet breath and reached for my son.

But the doctor grabbed my hand first, his face tight with alarm.

"What happened to your hand? Did Bartholomew do this?"

"Come with me—we need to run tests. You know he has—"

He couldn't bring himself to say it.

But I lifted my head calmly, and for the first time in months, my smile was real.

"I've always been the one managing Bartholomew's health. Of course I know better than anyone."

I'd received his test results yesterday.

Exactly as I'd suspected.

HIV. Positive.

The infection had already spread to his cardiovascular system.

A common cold. A sudden sneeze. One bout of strenuous exercise.

Any of them could kill him.

Which meant that for the next month, every moment he spent with Madeline brought him closer to the grave.

During my hospital stay, Bartholomew whisked Madeline around the globe in celebration.

He bought her a mansion. A diamond ring.

He announced to the world that she was the real Mrs. Delgado.

He acted like a lovesick teenager, burning bright and reckless.

They threw money around at clubs, made eternal vows beneath the Eiffel Tower.

As if I'd never existed at all.

I couldn't be bothered to care. I had loose ends to tie up.

Once I'd recovered enough, I took Noah to the Delgado estate.

Inheriting the family fortune, securing my position at Delgado Group—none of it mattered if I couldn't win over the old patriarch first.

Edgar Delgado was the key to everything.

The moment I stepped through the doors, shouting echoed through the halls.

A teacup shattered against the wall, hurled by Edgar himself.

"Worthless wretch!" he roared at his grandson.

"Years ago, you turned this family upside down to be with that woman. And now—how long has it even been?—you want a divorce?"

"Generations of Delgado honor, dragged through the mud because of you!"

Bartholomew pressed his lips into a thin line, saying nothing, his body a shield around Madeline.

That stubborn defiance on his face...

For a split second, the sight made something twist in my chest.

Years ago, he'd knelt before Edgar with that same look, begging to marry me.

As the sole Delgado heir, the family had already arranged a far more advantageous match for him.