My closest friend slammed the ultrasound printout straight into my chest. “I’m having Damon’s baby,” Kendra said, her chin tilted high. “Fourteen weeks along.” I didn’t blink. I just brought my right hand up and cracked it across her face. The slap echoed sharply in the foyer. Kendra staggered, cupping her cheek, but then she laughed—a raw, grating sound. “Hit me all you want. You can’t give him an heir. Everything his family built, every last cent of the empire, is going to belong to my son anyway.” Behind me, the sound of measured footsteps broke the silence. Damon’s voice was as smooth and chilling as chilled vodka. “Haven’t you made enough of a scene?” I didn’t turn around. For six years, I had been Damon’s wife. He gave me a triplex overlooking the city, an uncapped Black Card, and power of attorney over half his holdings. But in six years, he had never once laid a hand on me. Society whispered that he was impotent, or perhaps asexual, until three weeks ago, when I watched through the tinted window of his Maybach as he kissed Kendra. That slap wasn’t just for her. It was for the last six years of my life. … The ultrasound fluttered down to the marble floor. I bent, picked it up between two fingers, glanced at the blurry gray grain, and flicked it right back into Kendra’s chest. “Fourteen weeks?” I mused. “Good to know his stamina isn’t as hopeless as everyone thought.” Kendra cradled her stinging cheek, a smear of blood from the corner of her lip staining the back of her hand. She didn’t bother wiping it away; she just stared at me with watery, spiteful eyes. “Are you out of your mind, Cora? I am pregnant with “your husband’s” child.” I slipped my hands into the pockets of my cashmere coat. “Do you have any idea why he picked you?” She faltered, blinking. “Because you look like me,” I said evenly. “Right down to those soft waves you had your stylist copy from my Instagram photos three years ago.” The smug curve of Kendra’s mouth fractured. Behind me, the click of Damon’s Italian leather oxfords drew near, every step feeling like a metronome counting down to an execution. I kept my eyes fixed on Kendra as her face twisted from smug defiance into frantic panic, and then dissolved into practiced, dewy-eyed helplessness. The transition was so fluid it deserved an audition tape. Damon stepped beside me. His eyes swept over the red imprint of my palm on Kendra’s cheek, then dropped to the crumpled printout on the floor. “Finished?” he asked. The question was meant for me. I finally turned to look at him. He looked precisely as he always did—tailored charcoal three-piece suit, sharp aristocratic jawline, and that infuriating, effortless composure. At thirty-two, Damon was the undisputed crown prince of the city’s commercial real estate, a man who possessed everything, yet had shared a bed with me for over two thousand nights without so much as brushing his fingers against my skin. Kendra took tiny, trembling steps toward him, tears spilling right on cue. “Damon, I’m fine. Please don’t be hard on Cora. She’s just… she’s in shock.” Damon didn’t spare her a glance. His dark, impenetrable eyes stayed locked on mine. “Go home,” he told me. I gave a curt nod and turned on my heel. “Cora, wait!” Kendra called out after me. “Just let me explain—” I paused at the threshold, keeping my back to them. “Kendra,” I said, my tone flat, “does your husband know you’re pregnant?” The room went dead silent. Her husband was Simon. They’d tied the knot just last year; I had written them a five-thousand-dollar wedding check. Simon was an ordinary, earnest guy who worked two jobs, made her scratch-made dinners every single night, and drowned himself in high-interest loans just to buy her the designer bags she craved. Damon’s brow twitched—the slightest crack in his armor. Kendra’s face drained of color for half a beat before she rallied. “What are you talking about? Simon and I split up months ago.” “Did you?” I pulled my phone from my pocket. “Let me give him a quick call to check.” “Cora,” Damon cut in, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with warning. “That’s enough.” A small, hollow smile pulled at my lips. I slipped my phone away and walked straight toward the private elevator without looking back. As the brass doors began to slide shut, I caught a glimpse of Kendra burying her face against Damon’s chest, sobbing inconsolably. Damon hesitated, his hand hovering in the air before settling stiffly on her shoulder. Well. At least he didn’t pull her into his waist. When I arrived back at the estate, Maria, our longtime housekeeper, hurried into the foyer. She took one look at my face and murmured cautiously, “Ma’am, you’re back.” “I am.” “Will Mr. Kincaid be joining you for dinner tonight?” “Oh, absolutely,” I replied, slipping off my coat and handing it to her. “He’ll probably bring his mistress and their unborn child along, too.” Maria’s face paled. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I walked into the grand dining room and took my seat. On the mahogany table sat roasted Cornish hens, buttered haricots verts, garlic-whipped potatoes, and a velvety lobster bisque—all of my favorites. Maria had worked for the Kincaid family for over twenty years. She had watched Damon’s mother preside over this house, and then she had watched me take her place. She saw everything, understood everything, and said nothing. Damon returned sooner than I expected. He didn’t bring Kendra. He entered alone, kicked off his shoes, loosened his silk tie, and sat down opposite me. “Let’s eat,” he said quietly. I cut into a piece of roasted chicken, chewing slowly. “She didn’t come?” “Did you want her to?” “Why not? I wouldn’t mind seeing what she cooks. I’m curious what kind of domestic bliss my husband is enjoying on the side.” Damon set his silverware down and stared across the table at me. His eyes were deeply set, possessing an intense, unwavering focus that made most people mistake him for a man of profound romance. I used to think that, too. Later, I realized he looked at corporate quarterly earnings with the exact same gaze. “Cora.” “Yes?” “About Kendra. I owe you an explanation.” “No need,” I said, spooning up a bit of the bisque. “You’re at the age where a man wants an heir. With an empire this vast, someone needs to inherit the throne. I can’t give you that, so you outsourced it. Makes practical sense.” Damon’s gaze darkened. “You really believe that?” “Of course,” I said, wiping the corner of my mouth with a linen napkin. “Just give me a heads-up next time so I can clear out. Having your mistress pregnant while your legal wife occupies the master bedroom makes for awkward optics.” “No one asked you to clear out.” “Then what will you do when her belly shows? Stash her in some leased apartment? A bastard heir wandering the streets doesn’t sound very on-brand for the Kincaid legacy.” Damon stared at me for several excruciating seconds. Then he pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ve lost my appetite.” As he headed up the spiral staircase, Maria walked out with a fruit tart. She glanced at his retreating back and whispered, “Ma’am, he looks troubled tonight.” “When doesn’t he?” The very next morning, Kendra moved into Damon’s luxury villa in the hills. The news reached me while I was at an upscale spa downtown. The aesthetician’s hands were shaking so hard that an entire dropper of botanical serum trickled down my collarbone. “Mrs. Kincaid… should we stop?” she stammered. “Keep going,” I said serenely. “Add the full-body scrub, too.” My phone vibrated three times on the side table. Messages from Kendra. The first was a photo: her head resting against Damon’s shoulder while he stared aloofly at his phone, his hand resting limp on her upper arm. The second showed the villa’s panoramic living room, two glasses of vintage Cabernet resting on the reclaimed-wood coffee table, Damon’s bespoke suit jacket draped across the linen sofa in the background. The third was a voice note. I didn’t bother listening. When Maria pulled the sedan up to the curb to pick me up, her eyes were rimmed with red. “Ma’am… Mr. Kincaid called.” “What did he say?” “He said… you shouldn’t go back to the estate tonight.” My hand paused over the seatbelt buckle. “Did he give a reason?” “He said he’s hosting an important guest.” I sat in the passenger seat for a quiet moment, clicking the buckle into place. “Take me to my old apartment on Elm Street then. The spare key should be in the glove box.” Maria didn’t put the car in drive. She looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Ma’am, shouldn’t you sit down and talk to him? You’ve been married six years. You never cared about the gossip columns, but this is different. She moved in. If she’s really carrying his child—” “She is carrying a child.” A tear tracked down Maria’s weathered cheek. I pulled a tissue from my purse and handed it to her. “What are you crying for, Maria? It’s not like I’m dying.” At ten that night, the lock on my apartment door clicked from the outside. Damon stood in the threshold, his tie untied and hanging loose, carrying the faint, smoky scent of bourbon. He took in the sight of me curled up on the small sofa with a bag of potato chips, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?” “Didn’t you tell me not to go home?” He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “I thought you would go to your mother’s.” “My mother is in Europe.” Damon lingered by the entryway for a moment, shed his jacket onto the small shoe console, and came over to sit on the worn armchair across from me. On the laminate coffee table sat the remnants of my greasy late-night takeout—a dripping double smashburger, seasoned crinkle-cut fries with ranch, and two opened cans of cheap IPA. He glanced at the grease-stained brown paper bags. “This is what you’re having for dinner?” “Tastes good to me.” A suffocating silence filled the room. Finally, Damon spoke. “The baby Kendra is carrying isn’t mine.” My hand stopped halfway to the chip bag. I looked up. His face was a blank slate. “It’s Simon’s,” he said. I swallowed the crisp chip in my mouth. “Simon? Her husband?” “Yes. She found out she was pregnant and came to me. She said Simon didn’t know, that she refused to terminate it, and that the child needed a better pedigree.” “So you agreed to play along?” “I did. And I wired twenty million to her account.” I set the bag of chips down on the table, studying his face under the harsh fluorescent light. Damon was a man whose thoughts were usually buried ten miles beneath the surface, but tonight, his eyes were completely hollow. “Then why tell everyone it’s yours?” “Because it sounds better,” Damon said, leaning his head back against the cushion. “Damon Kincaid’s illicit heir carries far more clout than the child of an indebted clerk.” “And you don’t mind the smear on your name?” “No.” “Why?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached over, grabbed one of the open beer cans, and took a slow sip. I stared at him for a long time. “Damon, are you out of your mind?” He raised his eyes to meet mine. “That kiss in the car,” I pressed. “Was that part of your performance, too?” “The one in the Maybach?” “Yes.” “She initiated it. I pushed her off.” I let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Then whose shade of berry lipstick was smeared on your mouth when you walked through the front door that night?” His fingers tightened around the aluminum can. “That exact shade,” I said, my voice steady, “was what I wore to my twenty-fifth birthday dinner. Kendra hunted down the boutique counter for over a month just to find it.” Damon looked at me, a flicker of genuine shock finally bleeding through his veneer. “You knew?” “I know a lot of things, Damon.” I crumpled the chip bag into a tight ball and tossed it into the trash can. “I know the monthly allowance wired into my private checking account isn’t meant for me; it’s to pay down my father’s bad debts. I know you didn’t marry me because you loved me, but because your mother made you promise on her deathbed that you would look after me.” I held his gaze. “And I know the reason you haven’t touched me in six years has nothing to do with your body. You think intimacy requires emotional responsibility. And you’ve never intended to be responsible for anyone.” The aluminum can crumpled with a sharp “crunch” in his grip. “Cora.” “Yes?” “I’m sorry.” I stood up, brushing crumbs from my sweatpants. “The morning of our wedding, you told me something, Damon. Do you remember?” He remained silent. “You said there would be no love in this arrangement, but that you would always grant me dignity.” I looked down at him—this titan of industry, sitting on a sagging couch in an eighty-square-meter apartment, nursing cheap beer. “Up until today, you kept that promise flawlessly.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “But the second you moved Kendra into that villa, you stripped away every shred of dignity I had left.” I turned toward the bedroom door, stopping at the handle. “There’s a fresh comforter in the closet. You can take the couch.” He didn’t sleep on the couch. When I got up at three in the morning for a glass of water, I saw him out on the balcony, leaning against the railing with a lit cigarette. His suit jacket was slung over his knees, his sleeves rolled messily to his forearms. The apartment was pitch black, saved only by the glowing amber tip pulsing between his fingers. I poured a glass of water, carried it out, and set it on the small glass table beside him. He didn’t look at me as he flicked the ash. “Why did you agree to marry me back then?” “My mother wanted the dowry.” He turned his head slowly. I leaned against the sliding glass frame. “My father was eighty million in the red. Your mother stepped in with an offer of marriage, and the settlement cleared every cent of his debt. My mother took the check, so I walked down the aisle.” “Just for that?” “What else would it be for?” Damon stubbed the cigarette out in a saucer, then immediately lit another. He rarely smoked, but tonight a half-dozen butts lay crushed beside him. “I thought… you might have felt something for me.” A genuine laugh escaped my throat. “Damon, are you drunk?” He picked up the glass of water, drained half of it, and stared at the dark skyline. “Kendra is moving out tomorrow.” “Doesn’t matter to me.” “I’ll sign the Westside villa over to your name.” “I already have a roof over my head.” “Then what do you want, Cora?” I thought about it for a beat. “A divorce.” His fingers froze mid-air. An ember of ash fell onto the fabric of his trousers; he didn’t brush it off. “What did you say?” “I want a divorce,” I repeated calmly. “Rather than throwing twenty million at Kendra to play father to another man’s baby, save that cash for my severance. I take the payout, you play daddy to your heart’s content, and we both get what we need.” He crushed the fresh cigarette into the saucer with brutal force, sending sparks flying across the glass top. “Cora.” “I’m listening.” “Do you know why I married you?” “Because your mother told you to look after me.” “Yes,” he said, rising to his feet. He towered over me, his shadow swallowing mine in the dark. “She told me to “care” for you. She never told me to make you my wife. Marrying you was my own decision.” I kept quiet. “And you married me purely because your mother cashed a check,” he whispered, biting down on each syllable. “Eighty million. Just business.” “Yes.” He stared at me, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. Then, he offered a bitter, fleeting smirk—a terrible, fractured expression that vanished almost instantly. “Fine.” He scooped up his jacket and walked toward the front door. Pausing beside me in the entryway, he pulled a matte-black credit card from his wallet and set it on the console table. “There is no limit on this card. Have Maria take you to my attorney tomorrow. Draw up whatever terms you want. I’ll sign.” I glanced at the card. “You don’t want to know how much I’m asking for?” “Ask for everything. I don’t care.” He opened the door. The pale, harsh light of the corridor spilled across the threshold, casting his shadow long and thin. “Damon.” He stopped, his hand resting on the brass handle without turning around. “Is the baby really not yours?” “It’s not.” “You’re certain?” “Completely.” “Did you ever touch her?” He gave no answer. He simply pulled the door shut behind him. His footsteps faded down the hallway. The ding of the elevator sounded, and then the building sank back into total stillness. I walked back to the bed and stared up at the plaster ceiling. My phone chimed. It was Kendra. Another picture: the snapshot of her kissing Damon in the car. I had already seen it hours ago; God knew why she felt the need to send it twice. I scrolled up through our chat history. She had sent so much poison over the past three months. “Three months ago:” “Damon had too much whiskey tonight. He’s staying in my guest room.” “Two months ago:” “He said your name while he held me. It made me sick.” “One month ago:” “He doesn’t love you, Cora. What are you even holding onto?” I had never replied to any of them. I slid the phone under my pillow and shut my eyes. A soft buzz stirred the sheets again. Not Kendra. It was from Damon. Just three words: “Never touched her.” I stared at the tiny screen for thirty seconds, then slid the phone back under the pillow and turned away. … The meeting was held in the high-floor boardroom of Kincaid Holdings. When I pushed the frosted glass door open, Damon was already seated at the head of the conference table, a towering stack of legal folders before him. His personal attorney, Mitchell, sat to his right. The leather chair across from them was empty, waiting for me. Damon looked up. His gaze lingered on my face for two seconds before he returned to flipping through the pages. “Sit,” he said. I sat. Maria had insisted on riding along, but she refused to enter the room, standing like a sentinel out in the hallway. Mitchell slid a thick sheaf of paper across the polished mahogany, his eyes darting nervously behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Mrs. Kincaid, these are the draft dissolution terms prepared by Mr. Kincaid. Please review them.” I opened the folder. First page: Division of Assets. Four out of Damon’s six private residences were allocated to me. Controlling equity in two subsidiary tech firms. A lump-sum cash settlement of two hundred million dollars. I snapped the folder shut. Mitchell blinked. “Mrs. Kincaid, if there are provisions you find unsatisfactory, we can negotiate—” “Are you saying it’s not enough?” Damon asked, lifting his chin. “It’s far too much,” I replied. “I only want one property: the townhouse where my father currently resides. No equity. No cash settlement.” Damon frowned. “Cora.” “I’m not being humble,” I said, meeting his cold gaze. “Of the eighty million your mother provided my family, my father has already repaid sixty million. The remaining twenty can be deducted from my shareholder dividends over the next two years. After that, our accounts are clean.” The room grew suffocatingly quiet. Mitchell pushed his glasses up his nose, shifting uncomfortably between Damon and me, unsure of who was giving the real instructions. Damon laid his fountain pen flat against the desk. “The townhouse your father lives in was already registered under your name three years ago; you don’t need my permission to keep it. And the settlement is non-negotiable. It’s standard procedure.” “The law allows me to waive it.” “There is no reason for you to waive it.” “I don’t want your money, Damon.” Damon locked eyes with me for several seconds. Abruptly, he pushed his chair back and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, turning his back to the room. “Mitchell. Give us the room.” Mitchell gathered his files with breathtaking speed and practically sprinted out the door. Maria closed it firmly from the outside. We were alone. Damon didn’t turn around. His voice drifted back from the glass pane. “Do you know why Kendra approached me in the first place?” I stayed silent. “She spent three months investigating us. You, me, our families, our finances. She knew about your father’s insolvency, your mother’s demands, and the promise I made to my mother. She knew every crack in our foundation.” “And?” “And then she came to my office and made an offer. She bet she could force you to ask for a divorce.” My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands, digging crescent shapes into the flesh. Damon turned around, leaning back against the sill with his hands in his pockets. “She claimed that the moment she set foot in the villa, you would walk away. I told her you wouldn’t. She wagered a million dollars on it.” “You lost the bet.” “Yes,” he whispered, a pale, faint smirk touching the corner of his lips before disappearing completely. “I wired the million to her account this morning.” The bright white recessed lights of the conference room felt blinding, making my temples throb. I looked at Damon’s face. There were deep, purple shadows under his eyes, his tie was looser than usual, and his top shirt button was undone. “Did you sleep at all last night?” “A little.” “How long?” “Three hours.” “Why so little?” He didn’t answer. He walked back to the table, sat across from me, and reopened the agreement. “I’ll reduce the lump sum to fifty million, and you will retain ten percent equity. Do not argue with me on this. It isn’t for your sake; it’s for mine.” “What does that mean?” “I refuse to let the board or the press claim that Damon Kincaid’s former wife was tossed out onto the street with nothing.” I stared at him for a quiet moment, pulled the paperwork toward me, turned to the final page, and scrawled my signature. Damon watched my pen move with rapt attention, as though observing the execution of a multi-billion-dollar merger. When he handed me the second document to countersign, his chilled fingers brushed against mine. “It’s done,” I said. He gathered the documents, inspected my neat signature, folded the pages, and tucked them into a leather folio. “I’ll have Mitchell handle the legal filings. The decree should be finalized within a week.” “Good.” He rose, his hands reaching to button his jacket, unbuttoning it, and buttoning it again. “You can move back into the estate whenever you like. The gate code hasn’t changed. It’s still your birthday.” “No need.” He stepped toward the exit, his hand resting on the heavy metal lever. “Cora.” “Yes?” “Thank you. For these six years.” The door swung open, a cold draft sweeping in from the hallway. His tall silhouette disappeared around the corner. Maria rushed in, staring first at the empty hall and then at me sitting motionless in the leather chair. “Ma’am… Miss Cora, are you alright?” “I’m fine.” I stood up, took my handbag, and slipped Damon’s Montblanc pen into my coat pocket. “Come on, Maria. Let’s head to that little Italian place across from the municipal court. I want a plate of spicy rigatoni alla vodka with extra chili flakes and garlic bread.”
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