Deported His Mistress, Kept His Baby

Chapter 2: When Roses Wither

Vincent Sinclair always showered me with extravagant gifts for every occasion.

Limited-edition handbags on Valentine's Day, custom-designed jewelry for my birthday, even cute stuffed animals on Children's Day.

He loved holding my hand at galas, introducing me to everyone with pride: "This is my wife, Zoe Johnson."

During our time apart, his texts never stopped.

"I miss you, Zoe," sent over and over, dozens of times a day.

Once, at a business dinner, when a client's son dared glance at me twice, Vincent shattered his wine glass, his eyes blazing with fury.

Late nights, he would pull me close, his voice rough: "All Sinclairs are mad. Only you can calm me."

I'd rub his tense back, like soothing a scared animal, until his breath evened out.

I thought this would last forever—until he disappeared for three days.

My hands shook as I spilled coffee across the white carpet, the stain spreading, much like our crumbling marriage.

I first heard about Mia Quinn after the quarterly reports.

A secretary whispered, "How cliché—spilling coffee to get attention."

I laughed it off.

Three months later, the 22-year-old graduate became Vincent's special assistant.

Social media exploded with videos of them together—him teaching her horseback riding, his chin resting on her head as the sunlight glowed around them like a halo.

At a gala, when someone mocked Mia's manners, the usually composed Vincent knocked out three teeth in a rage.

Later, hospital cameras caught him tenderly blowing on her hand, as if it were fragile crystal.

Their scandal spread like wildfire.

When photos from a charity ball showed them kissing, I smashed our wedding portrait.

Among the shards of glass, Vincent adjusted his cufflinks with a smirk: "You're twenty-eight. Why compete with a child?"

"You married me at that age," I retorted, my nails digging into my palms.

He smirked even wider: "Exactly why I prefer younger ones now."

The medical report and divorce papers arrived at the same time.

The doctor pointed at the ultrasound. "Twelve weeks along."

I touched my flat stomach, recalling Mia's diamond ring selfie trending that morning.

My father arranged an emergency immigration plan: "We leave in three days."

Outside the OB-GYN clinic, the nurses said it was too dangerous to terminate now.

As I was midway through signing the consent forms, Vincent's call flashed on my phone:

"Zoe," his voice ice cold, "where did you take Mia?"

Five law firms rejected my case, citing "conflict with Sinclair Group."

One junior lawyer confessed, "Vincent blacklisted anyone who helps you."

As I packed my bags, I found nine years of gifts tucked away in the safe.

Beneath them, our faded marriage certificate.

The rain tapped against the window, just like on our wedding day when he wrapped me in his suit, promising me shelter for life.