Deported His Mistress, Kept His Baby

Chapter 8: He's in Critical Condition

My parents' eyes filled with tears the moment they saw my bruised hands and heard that I'd lost my part-time job.

"Zoe, your dad recently teamed up with Uncle Brown on a project," my father said, his rough hand patting my shoulder. "Once the funds come through, things will get easier for us."

Without saying a word, my mother gently pushed me onto the bed and tucked me in. "Silly child, as long as we're here, you don't have to suffer like this."

"We'll protect you every day we're alive," she murmured, running her fingers through my hair. "My daughter was born to be cherished."

I felt a lump form in my throat, and I buried my face in the pillow.

In the middle of the night, I woke to the soft glow of a lamp. My mother, wearing reading glasses, was carefully applying ointment to my wounds with a cotton swab.

With every gentle dab, she blew on the skin, as though she was afraid of hurting me. I pretended to be asleep, letting the tears soak into the pillowcase.

Vincent Sinclair wasn't going to let go so easily.

The day I came home from grocery shopping, I found him sitting in our living room. My father was sitting across from him, rigid and tense.

I rushed forward, standing protectively in front of my parents. "What do you want now?"

Vincent stood up with a polite smile. "I came to take you all home."

He turned to my father. "Dad, I was foolish before. The company issues are resolved—you can return anytime."

"Vincent," I scoffed. "Do you think we're your toys? Something you can discard and pick up whenever you feel like it?"

"You don't even deserve to speak about love," I snapped, pointing to the door. "Get out. Now."

His eyes darkened, but he didn't argue.

Then, in a move that stunned me, he suddenly knelt before my father, pressing his forehead to the floor. "Dad, I was wrong."

When he reached out to me, I slapped his hand away.

Watching him kneel was satisfying, but I refused to soften. "Please, just leave us alone."

I thought that would be the end of it.

But the next day, Vincent started showing up uninvited.

He sat at our table during meals, loitered behind the couch while we watched TV. Even the police couldn't help—he carried our marriage certificate with him, as if it gave him a right to be there.

A week later, a shrill phone call jolted me awake in the middle of the night.

"Mrs. Sinclair, your husband has been stabbed. He's in critical condition."

Skeptical but anxious, I rushed to the hospital.

Outside the ER, I found a bloodied bodyguard standing next to a perfectly made-up woman—Vincent's first love, Mia Quinn.