“Sign the divorce papers now! I’m sick of looking at your bloated, milk-stained body! I need a young trophy wife worthy of my CEO status, not a pathetic housewife like you!” My husband threw divorce papers in my face while I was still bleeding from an emergency C-section. He brought his mistress secretary to mock me. He didn’t know his CEO title was just a puppet role I created, and I was the real Chairman who owned everything.

Chloe.

His executive assistant. Twenty-three. Former model turned “scheduler.” She wore a cream pencil skirt and a silk blouse that probably cost more than a nurse’s paycheck. Blonde waves spilled over her shoulders like a commercial.

One hand held a Starbucks cup. The other carried Mark’s leather briefcase.

Her eyes landed on me—sweaty, pale, exposed in a hospital gown—and she smiled.

Not warmly.

Like a predator admiring something injured.

“Mark?” My voice came out rough, cracked from dehydration. “You’re here.”

He stopped mid-room, not rushing to me, not moving toward the bassinet. He adjusted his cufflinks instead, scanning the space like it offended him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, disgust thick in his tone. “This place reeks of iodine and milk.”

“The babies…” I pointed weakly. “Leo and Mia. They’re asleep.”

He flicked his eyes to the bassinet for a heartbeat—didn’t walk closer, didn’t touch them.

“They’re fine,” he said flatly. “I already arranged help. Night nurses will be at the penthouse by noon. They’ll handle the… details.”

Then his gaze returned to me—cold, hard, empty.

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