"I'm sick of looking at that face of yours."
"You could strip naked in front of me—you could die holding that baby in your arms—and I wouldn't feel an ounce of pity!"
Bartholomew's voice carried across the street, every vicious word designed to humiliate.
Passersby slowed. Stared.
He slammed the car door and peeled away without a backward glance.
Minutes later, my phone buzzed.
He'd frozen every one of my cards. Left me stranded with nothing but the clothes on my back and a newborn in my arms.
When I turned toward the house, Nanny Lambert stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.
"Mr. Delgado has retired for the evening. We shouldn't disturb his rest."
She swallowed hard. "Mr. Bartholomew asked me to pass along a message. He says you should use this opportunity to reflect on your behavior."
"And if you try any more tricks... you won't see a single cent after the divorce."
There it is.
Relying on others. It never works. Not really.
Fortunately, I'd seen these people for what they were long ago. I'd stopped expecting anything from them.
I held my baby close and walked.
Didn't look back.
An hour's journey. For a woman still weeks from recovering from childbirth.
Every step carved itself into my bones.
By the time I reached the villa, my clothes were soaked through with sweat. The pain had hollowed me out until breathing felt like a luxury I couldn't afford.
The housekeeper rushed to my side, her face crumpling with distress. She helped me inside, opening her mouth several times but never quite managing to speak.
I understood why the moment I looked up.
My belongings lay scattered across the floor.
Our wedding portrait—Bartholomew's and mine.
My medical journals, painstakingly collected over years. Rare volumes of classical medicine I'd treasured since my apprenticeship.
Every small memento that had once held the weight of our shared past.
Some had been slashed with lipstick, ugly red X's scrawled across their surfaces.
Others floated in puddles of filthy water, reeking of sewage.
And threading through it all—soft, breathy moans drifting down from upstairs.
"Bartholomew, you're so bad..." Madeline's voice, syrupy and coy. "You tore my dress again."
"How are you going to make it up to me this time?"
His response came low and thick, dripping with desire.
"Be good, baby. I'll transfer this villa into your name. How does that sound?"
"We can plant your favorite flowers in the garden together. Set up the nursery together."
"I'll give you everything you want..."
I'd thought I was numb to it by now.
But hearing those words—those exact words—my vision blurred at the edges.
Because he'd said them to me once.
He'd sworn on the heavens themselves that he would give our child and me the best life imaginable.
Now he'd ripped out the flowers I'd planted. Thrown away our wedding portrait.
He wouldn't even look at our baby.
The fickleness of the human heart. How quickly devotion curdles into cruelty.
I'd finally tasted the very dregs of it.
I allowed myself one moment. Wiped my eyes. Then I turned and walked toward the door, my daughter secure in my arms.
The housekeeper hurried after me. "Ma'am, it's so late—where will you go by yourself?"
"And all your things... you're just leaving them?"
I drew a long breath. Steadied myself.
"Yes."
The tainted man. The tainted past.
I was done with all of it.
I told her not to touch anything Bartholomew or Madeline had handled. Made her promise to disinfect everything thoroughly.
Nanny Lambert, who had followed us to the door, nodded over and over. Worried I'd have nowhere to sleep, she pressed several hundred dollars into my palm and insisted I find a hotel.
"Ma'am, Mr. Bartholomew still cares for you in his heart."
"Just... just wait until he's had his fun. Until he's ready to settle down. He'll come back to you."
He won't.
Because Bartholomew Delgado wouldn't live long enough.
Sure enough—that very night.
He collapsed in Madeline's bed, vomiting blood, and was rushed to the hospital.
