His eyes met mine—bloodshot, hollow, bruised with exhaustion—and for once, something like concern flickered across his face.
"You just gave birth. Why aren't you resting in bed?"
The scent of Ruth's perfume clung to him, thick and cloying.
It hit my stomach like a fist. I nearly retched.
I stepped back, avoiding his reaching hand.
"You wanted a divorce, didn't you?" My voice came out flat. Dead. "Let's sign it. Now."
Cyril went still.
For a few seconds, he just stared at me. Then his expression hardened, and a cold, mocking smile twisted his lips.
"Samantha, don't be stupid. You don't have a cent to your name. Leave me, and you'll be sleeping on the street tonight—you and that baby both."
I lifted my gaze to meet his. Held it.
"The baby isn't yours anyway," I said, ice in every syllable. "Why do you care?"
The mockery hit its mark.
Cyril's face contorted—Loss control, reached for the fury beneath it. He snatched the divorce papers from his assistant's hands and signed with such force the pen nearly tore through the page.
I reached for the document to add my own signature, but before the ink could dry—
He ripped it from my grasp.
"Ungrateful bitch."