Chapter 3

Seraphina's POV

The office fell into a dead silence.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. I pushed the door open.

The moment Julian saw me, he let go of Vivian's chin in a panic.

"Sera?" His brow furrowed, a flash of pure panic crossing his eyes. "What... what are you doing here?"

I didn't look at him. My gaze swept past him and landed on Vivian, who was still sitting on the couch.

Vivian's face remained expressionless as she spoke first. "Mrs. Sinclair, did you hear what we said? Are you here to cause trouble?"

She stood up. "Please don't misunderstand. Your husband and I have a strictly contractual relationship. There are no feelings involved, and I never intended to ruin your marriage. Oliver is two years old. According to the agreement, you two can take him back to raise. From now on, I have nothing to do with Julian."

She paused, then added with a calm, deliberate tone, "So, if you want answers, you should probably look at your husband. He's the one refusing to let go, not me."

Every word felt like an icicle piercing straight through my heart.

I turned my eyes back to Julian's face.

The face I had looked at for six years. The man I had loved with all my soul.

His brow, his nose, his lips. I had traced them a thousand times with my fingertips.

Now, those eyes that used to look at me with nothing but warmth were filled with shock, panic, and a humiliating shame of being caught red-handed.

Slowly, I walked toward him.

Slap!

The sharp sound of a hand hitting flesh echoed through the quiet office.

Julian's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint quickly swelled on his left cheek.

He slowly turned his head back, his dark eyes clouded with a storm, his jaw clenched tight.

My hand was still trembling, the palm burning with pain.

But I didn't stop. I turned toward Vivian, raising my hand again.

This time, my wrist was caught in mid-air, gripped tightly.

"Seraphina!" Julian roared, violently shoving me away. "That is enough!"

His strength was terrifying.

Losing my balance, I stumbled backward, my lower back slamming hard against the sharp corner of the mahogany desk.

A sharp, blinding pain shot through my spine, forcing a scream from my throat. I collapsed onto the floor, unable to stand up.

Julian rushed forward, but not to help me.

He stepped in front of Vivian, shielding her completely with his tall frame. He glared down at me, his face dark. "If you have anger, take it out on me. Don't take it out on an innocent person."

An innocent person?

My vision blurred from the pain. The agony in my back was nothing compared to the violent tearing in my chest.

Suddenly, I remembered a charity gala six years ago.

Shortly after I married into the Sinclair family, I had accompanied him to a high-society event. A group of wealthy socialites had surrounded me, mocking me, calling me a "gold digger" and saying a "high school dropout didn't deserve to stand next to Julian Sinclair."

Julian had overheard them. His face had gone cold instantly. He not only forced them to bow and apologize to me on the spot, but he also ruined their family businesses within a month.

Back then, he had shielded me just like this, telling the world, "My wife is not someone you get to insult."

But now, he had thrown me against a desk, showing no concern for my pain, only rushing to protect another woman, calling her "innocent."

How laughable.

"Security!" Julian's sharp command snapped me out of my thoughts.

The office door opened, and two bulky bodyguards walked in.

"Mrs. Sinclair is emotionally unstable. Take her back to the villa in New York," Julian ordered coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She is not allowed to leave without my permission."

"Yes, sir."

The bodyguards grabbed me by my arms, lifting me up.

"Let go of me!" I struggled, but the pain in my back robbed me of all my strength.

Julian's gaze finally landed on my face. Those eyes that once held nothing but tenderness now held only annoyance and coldness.

"Go home first. Once you've calmed down, we will talk."

The bodyguards practically dragged me out of the office, down the long corridor under the shocked stares of countless employees, and threw me into the waiting car.

Julian's private jet was already waiting at the airport.

By the time I was brought back to the New York villa, it was already midnight.

The bodyguards dropped me onto the cold marble floor of the living room and stepped outside, locking the grand doors from the outside.

The villa was dead silent, with only me left in the empty space.

Clutching my bruised lower back, I struggled to stand up.

The pain was still throbbing, like needles piercing my flesh with every movement.

The living room was brightly lit, and piles of beautifully wrapped gift boxes lay on the coffee table.

They were wedding anniversary gifts Julian had ordered for me.

There was antique jewelry bought at a premium from an auction, a limited-edition haute couture gown from Paris, and a painting by an artist I had casually mentioned liking.

Even my best friend had once said enviously, "Julian is so good to you. He doesn't care that you can't have kids. He only cares about you. He'd bring the whole world to your feet."

For a long time, I thought so too.

I felt so guilty for not being able to give the Sinclair family an heir, thinking my own body was a failure.

But now, looking at these gifts, they felt like the ultimate mockery.

The man who claimed he didn't care about having a child simply didn't want me to have his child. He wanted another woman to bear his bloodline.

Since he and Vivian already had a two-year-old son, I would happily get out of their way.