Chapter 2

The next day, I returned to the Upper East Side penthouse to pack my personal belongings.

When I pushed the door open, Ivy was curled up on the custom Italian leather sofa, propped against a maternity pillow. She was wearing Lucas’s cashmere cardigan, her blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders, looking every bit the serene, graceful lady of the house.

Seeing me, she slowly stood up, deliberately thrusting her six-month pregnant belly into my line of sight.

"Serena! You came. I was starting to think you'd abandoned your things." Her voice was sickeningly sweet, a sugar coating over a poisoned needle. "I had the maids box up most of it. Let me know if we missed anything."

As she brushed past me, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"The baby and I just adore it here. Oh, and I went ahead and swapped the mattress in the master. The old one... well, Lucas and I agreed it was bad luck."

She spoke with the exact same gentle cadence I had used when I first welcomed her into this home.

Ivy was my family's adopted daughter. She grew up in my house. Even my biological parents had favored her over me. After I married Lucas, I couldn't bear the thought of her struggling to rent a tiny place in New York, so I insisted she move into our guest room.

I remembered holding her hand, looking at Lucas, and saying, "She's my sister. Please, look out for her."

He had smiled and agreed.

And what happened next? One night, I came home early and found her wearing my silk nightgown, lying in the master bedroom, right next to my husband.

Looking at her swollen belly now, the memories of my past life clawed at my chest.

It was the birth of this exact child that had drained the very last drop of Lucas's patience with me. Locked in the psychiatric ward, I had overheard the orderlies gossiping about how Mr. Sterling had set up a two-hundred-million-dollar trust fund for his new son.

While I lay strapped to a bed, unable to even cry out loud.

Hatred boiled up in my throat like molten lava. My nails dug so hard into my palms they drew blood. I wanted to lunge at her, rip off her hypocritical mask, and make her taste the sedatives and restraints. I wanted her to suffer what I had suffered.

But I forced it down. I hadn't come back to life just to catch an assault charge and end up in a psych ward again.

Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the cardboard boxes, my face a mask of absolute indifference.

I had very little to take: a few pieces of ready-to-wear clothing, my design sketchbooks, an old picture frame. Seven years of marriage, and this was all that remained.

Seeing my lack of reaction, Ivy refused to let it go. "Why aren't you saying anything? Are you that heartbroken?"

I looked up and gave her a thin, icy smile. "What exactly are you fishing for, Ivy? A congratulations?"

She stiffened.

"This place has been dead to me for a long time. Enjoy the leftovers."

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and headed for the door. Right as I crossed the threshold, I shot a quick glance at a hidden corner in the entryway.

Tucked away perfectly was the high-end, covert smart-home camera I had installed the very day I agreed to the divorce.

In my past life, I lost because I had no evidence. I let their PR machine manipulate the narrative. This time, every single move they made would become the ironclad proof of their destruction.

That evening, Lucas and his lawyer came to my studio to finalize the supplementary trust documents.

As the lawyer flipped through the paperwork, he sighed. "Serena, you're being remarkably reasonable this time around."

I set my pen down and stared dead into my ex-husband's eyes. "Lucas, do I look like I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart?"

His hand, holding a cup of black coffee, gave a slight tremor.

"Imagine the Wall Street Journal headline: Sterling CEO knocks up his wife's adopted sister. How fast do you think the stock tanks?"

His brow furrowed deeply as he suppressed a flare of panic.

I knew a normal argument wouldn't rattle him. What he feared most was me going public. He needed me to exit quietly, to maintain the illusion of an amicable split. He absolutely could not afford a confirmed infidelity scandal.

I saw right through this man. But he had never understood me at all.

Just as I finished signing and prepared to leave, Ivy walked in from outside. She stumbled forward, clutching her belly, her voice laced with exaggerated agony.

"Lucas... the baby's kicking so hard... it hurts..."

Lucas instantly slammed his coffee down and rushed to catch her. He wrapped one arm securely around her waist, his other hand gently rubbing her pregnant belly.

The tone he used was a softness I had rarely heard in seven years of marriage. "I've got you. The doctor is on his way."

That genuine, raw tenderness. I had never had it.

Standing by the door, watching the scene unfold, I let out a low laugh.

How deeply ironic. This man had branded me a hysterical lunatic, yet he poured all his devotion into another woman.

He had no idea the child in her womb wasn't even his.

I pushed the door open, stepping out into the biting autumn wind of New York. Behind me, Lucas’s voice rang out, polite and entirely detached.

"Safe travels. I'll have the driver take you back."

Pathetic hypocrite.