Chapter 3

Two days later, Julian packed a sleek leather duffel bag.

"An emergency summit in London," he explained at the door, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. "I really hate leaving you alone for the weekend, Harper."

"It's fine, I can take care of myself. Have a safe flight," came my smooth, practiced reply.

Watching his taillights disappear down the driveway, I felt nothing but relief.

An hour later, a private courier arrived. He handed me a thick, sealed envelope from my attorney.

Inside were the expedited divorce papers.

Taking a pen, I signed my name on the dotted line without a single tremor.

Before the ink could even dry, the front doorbell chimed again.

Pulling open the heavy mahogany door, a tailored designer coat and a pair of familiar, triumphant eyes greeted me. Chloe.

Standing on my front porch, she firmly held the hand of the three-year-old boy.

"Hello, Mrs. Sterling," she said with a smile, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

Brazenly risking the multi-million-dollar NDA, she had finally shown her hand. Clearly, the desperate need to mark her territory had outweighed her obedience to him.

"Julian is in London," I said calmly.

"I know. But I actually came to see you," she replied, stepping uncomfortably close.

Lowering her gaze to my flat abdomen, she let out a soft, condescending sigh.

"Julian relies on you emotionally, Harper. But a man of his stature needs a legacy. He needs a biological heir. I just wanted to personally thank you... for taking care of my son's father while I couldn't."

She waited for the tears. She craved a hysterical breakdown.

Not a single muscle in my face twitched.

"You can have him, Chloe," I answered, my voice dropping to a quiet whisper. "He's all yours."

Shutting the heavy door right in her stunned face, I walked back into the living room.

Just as I sat down, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Private Investigator: The files you requested. Look at the attached birth certificate.

Opening the encrypted PDF, my eyes scanned the official hospital letterhead.

Leo Vance.

Then, I saw the date of birth.

October 14th.

The air instantly evaporated from the room.

Collapsing onto the edge of the sofa, my hands shook violently as I read the exact time of delivery printed next to the date.

8:15 PM.

Three years ago, on the night of October 14th, a drunk driver smashed into the side of my car.

Trapped in the crushed, bleeding metal at exactly 8:15 PM, I had dialed Julian's number fifteen times. Every single call went straight to voicemail.

I bled out on the freezing asphalt, losing my uterus and my future.

Rushing into the ICU the next morning, Julian had fallen to his knees and sobbed into my sheets. He swore his phone had been on silent during a locked-door board meeting.

He wasn't in a boardroom.

While I was being cut open to save my life, bleeding over the children we could never have, my husband was standing in a delivery room.

He was holding his healthy, newborn son.

The phone slipped from my trembling fingers, hitting the hardwood floor.

A second later, the screen lit up against the dark wood. An incoming text from Julian.

Julian: Just saw the perfect diamond bracelet in a Mayfair boutique. Buying it for you right now. I can't wait to come home to you, my love.

Staring at the glowing notification, a profound, freezing clarity washed over my entire body.

Heading upstairs, I pulled a single travel bag from the closet. Packing only my everyday clothes and personal IDs, I left every expensive gift Julian had ever bought me behind.

Walking into his private study, I placed the freshly signed divorce papers dead center on his mahogany desk.

Sliding the heavy diamond wedding band off my finger, I set it directly on top of the signature line.

Finally, I pulled out a glossy, printed photograph from my purse.

It was the picture I had taken three days ago: Julian, Chloe, and their son smiling around a birthday cake.

I laid the photo right next to the ring.

Julian had spent three years trying to keep his two worlds perfectly separated. Now, they were permanently, violently stitched together on his desk.

Picking up my suitcase, I walked out the front door and never looked back.