A laugh broke from me, sharp and bitter.
So this was it. A divorce I couldn't win, even with death as leverage—yet the moment Penelope bled, it became possible.
Pain tore through my lower abdomen, sharper than the day I miscarried.
I bent over, clutching myself, when his shoulder collided with mine. Derek brushed past, carrying Penelope away without a backward glance.
I collapsed to my knees.
The bodyguards rushed in.
Just before I lost consciousness, someone shoved a divorce agreement into my hand.
So men truly could be ruthless—when they chose to act, it was swift and merciless.
I shoved the papers back at the bodyguard.
"Burn it."
I've always been stubborn.
When I was a child, my father told me if I didn't obey, he'd beat me to death. I stiffened my neck and courted death anyway.
When I grew up, I swore to live and die with Derek. Eight months pregnant, I had stormed into a rival's den, wielding a machete to save him.
And now? I had said it before—the last divorce negotiation was his only chance.
He refused.
Then from this moment on, my marriage has only two outcomes: widowhood, or nothing at all.
—
When I woke up, Penelope was already discharged, safe and sound.
This time, she sent over a file.