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.

But Bartholomew refused to budge, dead set on being with me.

Back then, he'd knelt before Edgar with that same stubborn determination.

He stayed on his knees until even the hardest hearts in the Delgado family softened.

All these years later, Bartholomew hadn't changed one bit.

The only difference? The woman standing beside him, the one who held his heart—

It wasn't me anymore.

I hesitated, unsure whether to approach.

Then the baby burst into wails.

Bartholomew turned at the sound.

But he made no move to help.

He watched with cold detachment as I fumbled to soothe the child, his eyes filled with nothing but irritation—as if I'd committed some unforgivable offense by disturbing him.

In the end, it was Pearl Lambert who couldn't bear to watch any longer. She stepped forward and took the baby from my arms.

Even at the sight of his grandson, Edgar's expression didn't thaw.

He tossed a photograph at my feet, his face like carved granite.

"I don't care how you two fight or what drama you create."

"But there's one line you will not cross—the Delgado name and our stock price."

"Explain this. Now."

The photo was a livestream screenshot featuring Madeline.

An influencer to her core, Madeline never missed a chance to flaunt her wealth or parade her relationship. During yesterday's broadcast, eagle-eyed viewers had spotted a box of HIV medication on her vanity.

One tiny screenshot. That was all it took to ignite a firestorm.

The Delgado Group's PR team had scrambled to contain it, but the damage had already reached Edgar's ears.

I glanced at Bartholomew's ashen face, then stepped forward.

"It's a misunderstanding. That medication is a new drug our research team has been developing."

"I'll clarify everything with the media personally. The family's reputation won't be touched."

Edgar studied me for a long moment, then gave a satisfied nod.

He shot Bartholomew a look heavy with meaning.

Then he produced a golden locket and clasped it around the baby's neck.

"Sophie, rest assured."

"You've given the Delgado family its firstborn heir. We won't forget what you've done."

"If this boy of mine causes you any more trouble, you come straight to me. I'll set him straight myself."

"I'll beat some sense into this arrogant brat!"

I stopped needing anyone to fight my battles a long time ago.

When things between Bartholomew and me had been at their worst, everyone—the entire Delgado household, even people I'd once called friends—had chosen his side.

Some picked apart my every flaw. Others accused me of being petty and small-minded.

And Bartholomew himself had looked down his nose at me and sneered:

"Sophie, you're nothing but a castoff your own family threw away. What gives you the right to make demands of me?"

"One word from me decides whether you rise or fall."

That was when everything crystallized.

Love, devotion, affection—all of it was smoke and mirrors.

Only power and money were real.

I'd barely managed to smooth things over with Edgar.

I was heading home, hadn't even reached the corner, when Bartholomew's palm connected with my face.

No restraint. No mercy. Every ounce of his strength behind it.

My cheek swelled instantly, the skin burning like fire.

His expression remained frigid, utterly unchanged.

He stared at me with those eyes—the same eyes that had once held such tenderness for me—now brimming with nothing but disgust.

"Sophie, I underestimated you."

"Agreeing to the divorce to my face while stabbing Maddie in the back and running to Grandfather with your lies."

"You think this will win me back? You think this will make me love you again?"

"Keep dreaming."

"I'm sick of looking at that face of yours."

"You could strip naked in front of me—you could die holding that baby in your arms—and I wouldn't feel an ounce of pity!"

Bartholomew's voice carried across the street, every vicious word designed to humiliate.

Passersby slowed. Stared.

He slammed the car door and peeled away without a backward glance.

Minutes later, my phone buzzed.

He'd frozen every one of my cards. Left me stranded with nothing but the clothes on my back and a newborn in my arms.

When I turned toward the house, Nanny Lambert stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.

"Mr. Delgado has retired for the evening. We shouldn't disturb his rest."

She swallowed hard. "Mr. Bartholomew asked me to pass along a message. He says you should use this opportunity to reflect on your behavior."

"And if you try any more tricks... you won't see a single cent after the divorce."

There it is.

Relying on others. It never works. Not really.

Fortunately, I'd seen these people for what they were long ago. I'd stopped expecting anything from them.

I held my baby close and walked.

Didn't look back.

An hour's journey. For a woman still weeks from recovering from childbirth.

Every step carved itself into my bones.

By the time I reached the villa, my clothes were soaked through with sweat. The pain had hollowed me out until breathing felt like a luxury I couldn't afford.

The housekeeper rushed to my side, her face crumpling with distress. She helped me inside, opening her mouth several times but never quite managing to speak.

I understood why the moment I looked up.

My belongings lay scattered across the floor.

Our wedding portrait—Bartholomew's and mine.

My medical journals, painstakingly collected over years. Rare volumes of classical medicine I'd treasured since my apprenticeship.

Every small memento that had once held the weight of our shared past.

Some had been slashed with lipstick, ugly red X's scrawled across their surfaces.

Others floated in puddles of filthy water, reeking of sewage.

And threading through it all—soft, breathy moans drifting down from upstairs.

"Bartholomew, you're so bad..." Madeline's voice, syrupy and coy. "You tore my dress again."

"How are you going to make it up to me this time?"

His response came low and thick, dripping with desire.

"Be good, baby. I'll transfer this villa into your name. How does that sound?"

"We can plant your favorite flowers in the garden together. Set up the nursery together."

"I'll give you everything you want..."

I'd thought I was numb to it by now.

But hearing those words—those exact words—my vision blurred at the edges.

Because he'd said them to me once.

He'd sworn on the heavens themselves that he would give our child and me the best life imaginable.

Now he'd ripped out the flowers I'd planted. Thrown away our wedding portrait.

He wouldn't even look at our baby.

The fickleness of the human heart. How quickly devotion curdles into cruelty.

I'd finally tasted the very dregs of it.

I allowed myself one moment. Wiped my eyes. Then I turned and walked toward the door, my daughter secure in my arms.

The housekeeper hurried after me. "Ma'am, it's so late—where will you go by yourself?"

"And all your things... you're just leaving them?"

I drew a long breath. Steadied myself.

"Yes."

The tainted man. The tainted past.

I was done with all of it.

I told her not to touch anything Bartholomew or Madeline had handled. Made her promise to disinfect everything thoroughly.

Nanny Lambert, who had followed us to the door, nodded over and over. Worried I'd have nowhere to sleep, she pressed several hundred dollars into my palm and insisted I find a hotel.

"Ma'am, Mr. Bartholomew still cares for you in his heart."

"Just... just wait until he's had his fun. Until he's ready to settle down. He'll come back to you."

He won't.

Because Bartholomew Delgado wouldn't live long enough.

Sure enough—that very night.

He collapsed in Madeline's bed, vomiting blood, and was rushed to the hospital.