Deported His Mistress, Kept His Baby

Chapter 1: Where's She

Five years of marriage, and I destroyed it all with my own hands.

The rain poured relentlessly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows as I gripped the plane ticket, my hands shaking.

Just three hours ago, I had sent away Vincent Sinclair's trophy mistress of three years, Mia Quinn. The girl had wept, but I watched with a cold heart as the bodyguards escorted her onto a plane bound for Australia.

"Madam, are you sure about this?" The butler's voice wavered.

I forced a smile. "What? Don't I have the right to deal with a mistress?"

My phone buzzed in my palm—Vincent's name flashed on the screen.

Taking a deep breath, I answered.

"Zoe." His voice was ice cold. "You're dead."

The call ended abruptly, and the screech of tires sliced through the storm outside.

A black Maybach tore through the rain, and Vincent stepped out, his suit pants soaked with mud.

I waited for him in the foyer, my heart hammering in my chest.

The door crashed open, the sound deafening in the silence.

Vincent stood there, drenched, rainwater dripping from his chin, darkening the polished marble floor beneath him.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

I lifted my chin, my voice steady. "Gone."

Vincent's lips curled into a smile.

It sent a chill down my spine—the calm before the storm.

He slowly removed his watch, the metal band gleaming coldly in the light.

"Zoe, I gave you a chance."

He dialed a number, his voice flat as he spoke only two words: "Do it."

Three hours later, my father called. His voice shook. "Zoe… the company's under investigation. All our funds are—"

I collapsed onto the floor, staring up at Vincent as he loomed over me, his eyes filled with disdain.

He crouched down, gripping my chin with such force that it felt like he was going to crush the bones.

"Having fun?" he asked softly. "It's only going to get worse."

I trembled, nausea sweeping over me.

The morning sickness hit me at the worst possible moment.

Vincent let go, a look of disgust crossing his face.

"Stop faking," he sneered. "You think a pregnancy is going to change anything?"

A sharp pain shot through my abdomen, forcing me to curl into myself.

This child—this pregnancy—came at the worst time. To Vincent, it was nothing more than another pawn in his game.

As he turned to leave, I lunged forward and grabbed his pant leg. "Please, spare my father!"

He glanced down at me, his gaze dismissive. "If you're going to beg, do it properly."

I bit my lip until it bled, then slowly sank to my knees.

The moment my knees hit the floor, a memory flashed through my mind. Five years ago, at graduation, Vincent had knelt in a shower of confetti, holding out a diamond ring. "Zoe, marry me."

Now, the roles were reversed.

He stood, and I knelt.

"Where's Mia?" he asked.

I gave him the flight number.

Without another word, Vincent turned and left.

The rain swallowed his figure, just as it had swallowed nine years of love.

My phone buzzed again—a photo from my mother.

My father was on his knees in the Sinclair Group's lobby, surrounded by onlookers filming the scene. The caption read simply: "I don't blame you."

Clutching the pregnancy test results in my hand, I suddenly laughed through my tears.

How ironic. This slip of paper, which should have been a joyous surprise, was now nothing more than a cruel joke.

Outside, thunder cracked, lighting up the diamond on my wedding ring.

It still sparkled brilliantly, but no one would ever treasure it again.