When Derek came home, he found the shattered glass ornaments scattered across the floor—and me standing there with the phone in hand.
He only raised a brow as he said, "Don't you have anything to say?"
My ragged breathing mingled with the smoke from his cigar.
He chuckled softly, exhaled a ring of smoke, and sighed. "She's just a girl. Why bother lowering yourself to her level?"
His tone was light as if all the bloodshed he endured in the capital had been for her, not me.
"Yes, she's young and foolish." I tossed a medical report onto the table.
His body stiffened instantly.
"She was pregnant," I said flatly. "So I taught her a lesson and made her grow up."
"Esther!"
His hands clamped down on my shoulders so hard it felt like my bones would snap. My back hit the wall. I curled my lips, savoring the redness burning in his eyes.
In this lifetime, he'd only bled anger from his eyes twice.
Once, in our final year of high school—when he saw my father drag me half-naked by the hair into the street, trying to drown me in the river. That was the night he stabbed my father eighteen times.
The second time was now—over a girl's miscarriage.
He crushed my shoulders, demanding to know my "cruelty."
"How rare," I sneered, "to see President Vazquez actually lose control."
"You're a woman too! How could you do this to her?" he thundered.
"You already said it yourself," I leaned closer, whispering, "between us, there's no divorce. Only death. If you can't kill me, I'll kill you both instead."
Blood dripped to the floor.
He finally noticed the cuts on my hand from smashing the glass. His grip slowly loosened.
"Good," he murmured. "I didn't want that child anyway."
He took my hand, carefully wiping away the blood. When he dabbed iodine onto the wound, he blew gently, the way he always did.
It was a habit born years ago, when I'd come home covered in bruises from my father's beatings. He hadn't had anything but alcohol to disinfect my wounds, and he'd always blown softly, as if it could ease the sting.
Now, even with proper medicine, he was still careful—still afraid of hurting me.
My bloodied palm struck his face.
"Enough. It's filthy."
His face tilted slightly to the side. He didn't ask whether I meant the blood was filthy—or he was.
Instead, he called for Uncle Johnson, the butler, and handed him the medical kit.
The girl's name was Penelope.