He looked at me, a defensive frost crystallizing in his eyes. “Fine. You want a war? You’ve got a divorce. But mark my words, Sarah, you will regret walking away from me.”
I smiled, though the physical pain in my chest was blinding. “The only regret I have is that I didn’t walk away the day I met you.”
I spun on my heel, marching back toward the elevator. The brushed steel doors slid shut, sealing away the three hypocrites. As the carriage descended into the basement, my adrenaline crashed, and my hands began to tremble violently.
But through the agonizing haze of heartbreak, a cold, crystalline truth emerged in my mind.
That fetus cannot be Michael’s.
He was biologically incapable. And if this twisted triad wanted to put on a grand theater production of the perfect, happy family, I was going to buy a front-row ticket. I was going to sit back and watch with unblinking eyes until the stage caught fire and burned them all to ashes.
But who was the real father?
