Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later, Alexander's black Maybach screeched to a halt outside Dr. Lena's clinic.

He didn't knock. He never knocked. The door slammed open, and he filled the frame like a storm in a suit—six-foot-three, jaw clenched, eyes the color of arctic water.

"What the hell do you mean, divorce?"

Dr. Lena flinched behind her desk. I stayed seated on the exam table, legs crossed, and looked at him the way you look at an insect on your windshield.

"Exactly what I said. I want a divorce. I'll have my lawyer send the papers."

Alexander's gaze swept the room—the exam table, the medical chart, Dr. Lena's guilty expression—and his face changed.

He moved fast. Before I could react, he snatched the chart from the counter.

His eyes scanned. Stopped. Widened.

"You're pregnant."

It wasn't a question.

"Was," I corrected. "Past tense."

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Alexander looked at the chart again, then at me, then at Dr. Lena, who was practically pressing herself into the wall.

"What did you give her?" His voice was quiet. That was worse than yelling. "What. Did. You. Give her."

"Mr. Sinclair, your wife made a personal medical decision—"

He slammed his fist on the desk so hard the pen holder jumped. "That was MY heir!"

"That was MY body!" I shot back, sliding off the table. "And I don't owe you a single cell of it!"

For a split second—just a flash—something crossed his face that almost looked like hurt. But I knew better now. Alexander Sinclair didn't feel hurt. He felt inconvenienced.

He closed the distance between us in two strides, gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"Do you have any idea what you've done? Grandfather's trust requires a biological heir born within our marriage. Without that child, I lose everything. EVERYTHING."

"Then I guess you lose everything."

His grip tightened. I didn't flinch. I'd already died once because of this man. Pain was an old friend.

"Elara." His voice dropped, shifting into the velvet tone he used when he wanted to manipulate me. "Baby, I know I haven't been... the best husband. But we can fix this. We'll try again. I'll be better, I promise. I'll send Vivienne away—"

"Like you promised on our wedding night?" I tilted my head. "When you said 'she means nothing to me' and then left our reception to sleep at her apartment?"

He flinched. Actually flinched.

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody had to tell me, Alexander. I'm your wife. I always knew. I just didn't care enough about myself to leave."

I removed his hands from my shoulders, one finger at a time.

"The termination pill takes 24 hours to complete. There's nothing you can do. And if you try to lock me up, drug me, or forge documents to reverse it—"

His eyes flickered. I caught it.

"Oh. You were already thinking about it."

"Elara—"

"If you try any of that," I continued, pulling out my phone and showing him the screen, "this recording of you just admitting you only need me for the trust fund goes directly to your grandfather, the board of Sinclair Group, and every media outlet in the country."

His face went white.

I'd hit record the moment his Maybach pulled up outside. Last time, I had no evidence, no leverage, no voice. This time, I came prepared.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

We stared at each other. Two people who once stood at an altar and said forever.

Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and something shifted in his expression—Loss? Panic?—before he masked it with cold fury.

"This isn't over, Elara."

He turned and walked out, already answering the call in a low, tender voice I recognized.

"Vivienne, sweetheart, calm down. I'm on my way."

Dr. Lena exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for ten minutes.

"Mrs. Sinclair... he's going to retaliate."

"I know." I grabbed my coat. "That's why I need to get to my brother before he does."