For three days, I lay in a plush, sterile guest room, recovering from my injuries while Philip’s private medical team monitored Oliver in a state-of-the-art nursery down the hall.
My son was breathing on his own. He was going to survive.
But I was still bleeding on the inside.
When Philip walked into my room on the fourth evening, his presence was as cold and commanding as ever.
"Did he go back?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I hated myself for asking. I hated the pathetic, naive part of my brain that still clung to a shred of hope.
"Did Dominic go back to the hospital to check on me? To... to claim my remains?"
Philip stopped at the foot of my bed. His icy eyes didn't hold a single ounce of pity.
"He hasn't even bothered to call the hospital, Sasha," Philip said flatly. "He hasn't asked about your body, and he hasn't asked about the child. He is entirely focused on Jasmine."
The words felt like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of my lungs.
Philip pulled a sleek tablet from his jacket and tossed it onto my lap. "If you still harbor any lingering sentimentality for your husband, I suggest you cure it now."
With trembling hands, I picked up the tablet.
The screen flickered to life, showing intercepted security footage from Dominic's private penthouse.
The audio was crystal clear.
I saw Dominic pinning Jasmine against the marble kitchen counter. They were kissing passionately, their hands roaming over each other with a desperate, frantic hunger.
"I can't believe it's finally over," Jasmine giggled, pulling back to look at him. "Are you sure the hospital took care of... everything?"
"It's done," Dominic murmured, trailing kisses down her neck. "The brat is gone. And once her death is officially processed, I'll transfer all of Sasha's family assets directly to your name. She's left with absolutely nothing. We're free, Jas."
I slammed my hand against the tablet. "Release it," I demanded, my voice shaking with a visceral, agonizing rage. I looked up at Philip, tears of pure hatred burning my eyes. "Release this footage to the press right now! Destroy them!"
Philip calmly reached out and closed the tablet.
"No," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"Why?!" I screamed, clawing at the bedsheets. "They tried to kill my son and me!"
"Because a quick scandal is a quick recovery," Philip told me, his eyes gleaming with dark, predatory calculation. "I don't want to ruin them now, Sasha. I want them to be ruined piece by piece."
He leaned closer, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over my bed.
"We will let them build their empire," he whispered. "We will let them think they have won, let them climb to the very top of the world. And then, we will cut the foundation out from under them. When we finally strike, they will lose everything. When they learn the truth, it will be far too late to fight back."
I stared into Philip's cold, calculating eyes.
The brilliance of his long game washed over me, extinguishing the frantic, hysterical grief in my chest.
The tears stopped falling. The agonizing pain evaporated, crystallizing into pure, calculated vengeance.
Philip was right. Death was too good for them. I wanted them to suffer.
"Give me a pen," I said, my voice hardening into steel.
I pulled the divorce papers. I scrawled my signature at the bottom, officially severing my legal ties to the monster I had married.
That night, under the cover of a torrential downpour, I had Philip's driver take me back to Dominic’s villa.
Dominic and Jasmine were out attending a high-society gala, playing the perfect, tragic couple for the cameras.
The air smelled like Jasmine's sickeningly sweet perfume. She had already moved in. Her expensive coats were draped over my chairs. Her shoes were lined up in my hallway.
I felt nothing but absolute disgust.
I walked straight to the grand glass coffee table in the center of the living room.
From my coat pocket, I pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden box that Philip had given me. I placed it dead center on the glass.
Slowly, I opened the lid.
Inside, I folded the signed divorce papers and pressed them into the velvet lining. On top of the papers, I placed my heavy, diamond wedding ring. The edges of the diamond were still crusted with dried, brown blood from the accident.
Finally, I placed one last document inside the box—a crisp, perfectly forged cremation certificate bearing the seal of the city's medical examiner.
Sasha Sterling and unnamed infant.
