Deported His Mistress, Kept His Baby

Chapter 6: "Zoe, Enough Is Enough"

My fingers froze mid-scrub in the dishwater as the faucet's shrill sound cut through the air.

Vincent's voice sliced the silence like a blade, landing squarely at the nape of my neck.

"Get up."

His polished leather shoes gleamed, reflecting my disheveled appearance as he loomed behind me.

"We're going home."

I shook the water off my hands and deliberately pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. The mountain of orders in the kitchen didn't leave room for the whims of the young master.

But his grip clamped around my wrist, dragging me to face him. His brows furrowed as his eyes scanned my water-wrinkled fingers.

"The Mrs. Sinclair washing dishes in a foreign country?" His mocking laugh grated on my nerves. "Who's this little performance for?"

My gaze fixed on the sapphire tie pin at his collar— the one I'd bought with three months' worth of my salary after searching half of Europe for it.

How ironic that my luxury purchase had become just another accessory for him to use in his seduction of his secretary.

"Let go," I said through gritted teeth.

But my struggle only made him pull me harder toward the exit.

In desperation, I kicked backward, landing a hit that earned a pained grunt from him.

A black Maybach sat at the alley's mouth like a predator, waiting.

Vincent shoved me into the backseat, then snapped his fingers at the driver.

As city lights blurred past the window, I counted the streetlamps, each one marking the passing time. His gaze clung to me like spider silk, making me feel trapped.

Finally, at the third red light, he spoke:

"Your parents can come back with us."

I nearly laughed out loud.

"Has the busy Mr. Sinclair forgotten so quickly?" I turned to face him and noticed the tiny beauty mark near his eye. "Who got my father fired from the hospital? Who froze my mother's teaching stipend?"

The car was filled with the mingling scents of cologne and blood—my nails had raked across his hand during our struggle.

"Mia's situation is handled." His hand suddenly reached toward my abdomen. "The baby—"

I slapped his hand away. "Terminated."

The tires screeched in response.

Vincent's face twisted in shock, fury, and disbelief.

Without another word, he rolled down the window and ejected me into the swirling snow.

The snowflakes stung my cheeks as I stood there, watching the retreating taillights disappear into the night.

I remembered the doctor's words from my last checkup: "The embryonic demise resulted from chronic maternal stress."

How laughable. Even the unborn child knew this father wasn't worth meeting.