In the bulletproof car on the way back to the Sterling manor, I forwarded a copy of the alliance agreement, which Caspian had signed himself before our marriage, to my closest friend and our family's Consigliere, Juliana Croft.
I messaged her, "If there are no loopholes, I need two copies of the papers to dissolve the alliance. As soon as possible."
Juliana's reply was swift: "Leave it to me."
In the past, to put my mind at ease about this political marriage, Caspian had personally drafted the agreement. If he ever betrayed our alliance or proved disloyal, he would forfeit all assets and power tied to our marriage, leaving with nothing.
Back then, the look in his eyes when he gazed at me burned with a possessiveness so certain he would never break his vow.
Unfortunately, time corrodes all things, even a vow forged in blood and power.
It was evening when I returned to the manor. The dining table had long been cleared of the meal left untouched two nights ago, and the entire main house was filled with a cold, oppressive atmosphere.
It was obvious that in the last two days, Caspian had not set foot in our home.
I forced myself to shower, took painkillers to numb the raw ache in my abdomen, and quickly fell asleep in the guest room.
At midnight, the front door was thrown open with a bang. He stormed from the master bedroom to the guest room, and then—
Bang!
The door was kicked open, jolting me from my light sleep.
The next moment, a harsh light flickered on, illuminating Caspian's face, which was tense with fury.
"I am your husband, Seraphina! How dare you leave the clinic without a word?"
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw him standing at the door, panting. His expression was cold, filled with condescending accusation.
Behind him, peeking out, was none other than Briar. She was swimming in a silk robe that was clearly too large for her, her pale face framed by messy, flaxen curls. The robe gaped slightly, revealing a pair of long, fair legs and hinting that she wore nothing underneath.
I recognized the robe immediately. It was the birthday gift I had given Caspian this year, custom-made by a top designer.
The irony was, I clearly remembered him telling me just a month ago that the robe had been ruined in an "accident."
Oblivious to his exposed lie, he snatched an antique vase—one of my favorite pieces from my collection—and slammed it onto the floor. The sharp crack shattered the silence, scattering cold shards near my feet.
Caspian was seething with self-righteous anger. He pointed a finger at me, every word dripping with ice. "How dare you leave the clinic without telling me? Didn't you hear the doctor? The pregnancy was high-risk! You could have lost the baby at any second! Seraphina, when are you going to grow up?"
"I was looking for you for half an hour! Would it have killed you to let me know you were discharged?!"
