Deported His Mistress, Kept His Baby

Chapter 9: The Sinclair Bloodline

The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the hospital corridor, heavy and suffocating. I sat on the bench outside the operating room, my fingers mindlessly tracing the edge of my phone.

Then, a wave of overpowering perfume preceded the sharp click of high heels echoing down the hallway.

"So, you're the woman who got my son hurt?"

I looked up into a pair of sharp, phoenix-like eyes—eyes that mirrored Vincent Sinclair's.

Mrs. Sinclair stood before me in a perfectly tailored designer suit, her diamond necklace gleaming under the harsh hospital lights. She sized me up with a cold, calculating gaze, like she was appraising some luxury item.

Three years ago, the Sinclairs' separation had been the talk of the town. Vincent once told me his mother was a master at playing men, manipulating them with ease—even flirting shamelessly in front of him.

"Mrs. Sinclair," I said, nodding slightly in greeting.

She scoffed and pulled out her phone to make a call.

Minutes later, two black-suited bodyguards entered, dragging a disheveled woman behind them.

Mia Quinn's dress was torn, her exposed skin bruised and battered. One foot was bare, the other still trapped in a mud-stained high heel.

"You bitch!" Mia screeched when she saw me, her voice raw with hysteria. "This is all your fault!"

She lunged at me, the overpowering stench of sweat and alcohol assaulting my senses. The bodyguards slammed her to the floor, but Mia kept screaming. "Vincent Sinclair is a monster! He lured me abroad, broke my fingers, and it still wasn't enough—"

After being thrown out the previous night, Mia had gone to a bar to drown her sorrows. Local thugs had slipped something into her drink, and by the time she woke up, she was their plaything.

"My life is ruined..." Mia let out a crazed laugh, mascara-streaked tears smearing her face. "So I stabbed him twice—let him feel what it's like to wish for death!"

Mrs. Sinclair delicately covered her nose with a handkerchief and murmured something to the guards. Mia's wails faded as they dragged her out.

Just then, the operating room light flickered off, and the doctor stepped out, addressing Mrs. Sinclair with careful deference.

"The spinal nerves are damaged. He may never walk again," the doctor said, his voice low. He hesitated, then added, "And... his reproductive system suffered severe trauma. Fertility is unlikely."

Three days later, a nurse informed me that Vincent had regained consciousness.

When I pushed open the door to his hospital room, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a pale glow over his gaunt face.

At the sound of my entrance, he turned slowly, his gaze fixed on some distant point behind me.

"You came," he rasped, his voice hoarse. But then his lips twisted into a chilling smile. "The doctors say I'll never stand again. Perfect."

A nurse adjusted his IV, the metal stand clinking coldly.

Suddenly, Vincent coughed violently, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

But his smile only widened.

"Now... you can never leave."