Chapter 2

This was the first time he had ever let anger show in front of me.

I didn't argue. I curled my fingers, gave the hem of my dress a small pinch, and asked instead, "We can't very well let this child be born carrying the name of a bastard."

Warren's jaw clenched hard, his thin lips pressed almost into a straight line.

After all, everyone in the circle knew that the one thing Warren hated most was an illegitimate child.

In these circles, no matter how many mistresses a man kept on the side, in public he would protect his lawful wife. There was an old saying: a man who wrongs his wife lets no fortune in. So they all kept up the act, one way or another.

Except for Warren's father.

The had been the first to bring his mistress and his bastard home.

Not long after, Warren's mother threw herself off a building.

Warren had been mistreated by his stepmother from childhood, and bullied by that illegitimate son.

Everyone assumed he would be crushed for good.

No one expected him to endure in silence, gathering evidence in the dark, until at eighteen he handed the report to the disciplinary board and sent his own father to prison with his own hands.

Then, with his grandfather's backing, he took over all of Sanchez Group.

By twenty, he had planted his feet firmly in the Sanchez family.

At twenty-one, the illegitimate son who had bullied him since childhood died in international waters, not a bone left of him.

From then on, everyone knew exactly where his one raw nerve lay.

And now Warren, his face grim, said with something almost like impulse, "Freya, have the baby."

I didn't answer.

Because the next second, his gaze went past me, through the car window, and landed on someone.

I followed his eyes.

Outside our front door stood a woman in a white dress.

At some point a light rain had begun, soaking her dress and her hair, making her look fragile and pitiful.

It took me only an instant to guess she was the one who had called Warren.

Sure enough, the next second Warren shoved open the car door and rushed to her, one big arm sweeping her in and locking her tight against his chest, holding her like some treasure lost and found again.

I thought I had prepared myself well enough, but watching this, the pain still made it hard to breathe.

So this was what Warren looked like when he loved someone.

In a daze, I realized he had already carried the woman back toward the car.

When he saw I was still inside, his brow creased slightly, and a chill crept into his voice. "Get out."

I bit down on my lip and pulled the door open. The moment I steadied myself, the car peeled away in a burst of gas, splashing mud and water all over me.

I stood there calmly, watching Warren's car vanish, then lifted a hand to wipe the rain from the corner of my eye before I went inside.

Nothing about the house had changed, yet even the lights felt cold to me now.

I fished out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in three years.

"Hey, Hailey Monroe. I've got a house to sell. Do you have any buyers on your end?"

The other end went quiet first, then, as if she'd realized something, she suddenly asked, "You got divorced?"

"Yeah."

"Let's meet tomorrow. We'll talk in person."

With that, she hung up, and my nose stung despite myself.

Hailey's reputation in the circle wasn't good. Rotten to the core, you could say. But she was the only one who had ever been good to me.

She was a famous gold-digger in the circle.

She didn't want a man, didn't want love. She only wanted money.

She was like a pretty vase, passed around and played with by all the rich heirs in the circle. Give her a little luxury and she'd orbit right around you.

Give her a car and a house, and she'd do far more.

Everyone figured that once she was no longer young and beautiful, she'd be cast aside. Instead she went straight for those heirs' fathers, and latched onto one powerful, high-ranking bigwig.