Victor punctuated his desperation with sharp, stinging slaps to his own face.
Thud.
He dropped to his knees before me. "But Gracie, Gigi is pregnant. I have a child now."
He looked up, eyes swimming with guilt and entitlement. "Have mercy on me. Let Gigi carry this baby to term. The heir to the Skyfire Group cannot be born out of wedlock."
He shuffled closer, grabbing the hem of my skirt. "The moment the child turns one month old, I'll divorce her. I'll court you again. We'll remarry, and you'll resume your place as Mrs. Weston."
Georgia crawled forward to kneel beside him. "Professor Sullivan, punish me however you want, but please—don't blame Victor. He loves you."
Love?
From her mouth, about Victor and me—the word made bile rise in my throat.
My rage shattered its dam. My hand lashed out, striking her face with every ounce of strength I had left.
"You don't get to—"
Smack!
My head snapped sideways. Stinging heat spread across my cheek, radiating into my jaw.
Victor had hauled Georgia into his arms. His other hand—the one that just struck me—trembled at his side.
"Grace, you've gone too far," he snarled. "Stop bullying her."
I stared at him, blood running cold. Bullying her?
Georgia cradled her stomach, shrinking into his chest like a wounded animal. Victor didn't spare me another glance—he scooped her up and stormed out.
I made my way back to the university, mind numb.
I'd read the diary in the suitcase. I knew about the affair. But seeing him strike me to protect her? That was a different kind of agony.
When Georgia first arrived at Riverdale, she was a mouse—skittish, flinching at loud noises. I broke protocol to mentor her. I guided her hands through experiments, added her name to papers she barely contributed to, shielded her from the harshness of academia.
I thought I was gaining a sister.
Instead, she was busy getting "close" to my husband.
I sat at my desk and drafted an email to the dean. Expulsion. The reason was clinical: Moral turpitude; interference in a mentor's marriage; pregnancy from an illicit affair with Victor Weston.
Victor was a celebrity in Riverdale. It took thirty minutes for the scandal to explode.
The hashtag #RiverdaleGradStudentHomewrecker trended instantly. The internet mob went to work—court documents about her father's crimes, her kindergarten records, her graduate transcripts. All of it unearthed and dissected.
People camped at the university gates, plastering the entrance with posters cursing Georgia's name.
Victor cornered me early the next morning. No apology for the slap.
"Take her back," he commanded. "Reinstate Georgia as your student. It's the only way I'll feel the child is safe."
"No."
The cost of defying Victor Weston was immediate. Pressured by Skyfire Group, the university suspended me.
In my past life, I'd swallowed my pride to keep my career—only to end up committed to an asylum a year later. I wouldn't make that mistake again.
The irony was bitter. I remembered the first time I saw Victor.
He was trailing his grandmother in the dead of winter, scavenging rotting cabbage leaves from the market floor because they couldn't afford fresh food.
I'd been a child then, but I knew how to manipulate my father. I faked a fainting spell from "hunger," claiming Dad's cooking was inedible, just to force him to hire a nanny.
My father, a widower who indulged my every whim, saw through the act but hired Grandma Weston anyway.
Her cooking was atrocious—worse than Dad's—but I ate every bite so Victor wouldn't have to scavenge again.
Under my father's tutelage, Victor's genius flourished. For a decade, Dad drove him to competitions, nurturing his talent until Victor swept every award in the state.
We built him.
And now, he was tearing me apart.
