Olivia looked up.
“It’s financial fraud. If he used foundation money to support his mistress, he could face criminal consequences.”
Sophia remembered gripping the edge of her desk until her fingernails bent.
“What should I do?”
Olivia didn’t look sympathetic.
She looked determined.
“Protect yourself.”
“Protect your baby.”
“And stop letting him decide how this story ends.”
Now, several hours later, Sophia wasn’t waiting for Ethan.
She was waiting for the last trace of fear inside her to die.
At exactly 3:04 a.m., the private elevator opened.
Ethan walked in smiling.
And that smile hurt more than any tears ever could.
He was still handsome in the cruel way wealthy men often are when they’ve never truly paid the price for their actions.
His tie hung loose.
His hair was messy.
His suit jacket rested over one shoulder.
And he smelled like champagne.
Hotel soap.
And Vanessa.
Sophia didn’t stand.
Ethan stopped when he saw her.
“What are you doing awake?”
He didn’t sound concerned.
He sounded irritated.
Sophia stared at him for several seconds.
“Waiting.”
He laughed and tossed his jacket onto a chair.
“Waiting for what? Another argument?”
The old Sophia would have lowered her eyes.
The old Sophia would have tried to explain herself.
But that woman no longer existed.
The new Sophia simply rested her hand on the white envelope.
Ethan’s eyes followed the movement.
“What’s that?”
Sophia looked up.
For the first time in years she felt no fear.
No anxiety.
Not even anger.
Only peace.
A strange, painful peace that arrives when a heart finally accepts a truth it has denied for too long.
“It’s the end,” she said.
Ethan laughed.
“The end of what?”
Sophia slid the envelope across the table.
“Us.”
The smile vanished from his face.
For several moments neither spoke.
Only the distant sounds of New York traffic drifted through the windows.
Ethan opened the envelope.
Read the first page.
Then the second.
Then the third.
His expression changed.
“Divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
He threw the papers onto the table.
“Sophia, it’s three in the morning. You’re pregnant. You’re emotional.”
She almost smiled.
How strange.
When a woman cries, she’s emotional.
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