He made a show of trying to stand, but his gaze slid sideways—a furtive glance toward Louise.
Right on cue.
And she didn't disappoint.
Bill's pitiful act hit Louise right where it was meant to. Sympathy flooded her face, and with it, a fierce surge of protectiveness.
She threw an arm out to stop him, then whipped around to glare at me.
"Julian, are you done yet?!"
"Look at yourself right now. You're acting like a jealous lunatic—do you even realize that?"
"Apologize!"
"Julian, I want you to apologize to Bill—right now!"
Louise didn't bother hiding the disgust in her eyes when she looked at me.
Bill, meanwhile, wore nothing but a smug grin.
Watching the two of them put on their little "devoted siblings" act, I couldn't help but laugh.
"Apologize... sure..."
I nodded.
The next second, under Louise's disbelieving stare, I grabbed the bottle off the table and smashed it over Bill's head.
Crack!
The bottle shattered on impact.
Crimson blood mingled with liquor, streaming down his face.
"Ahhh—!"
Bill clutched his head and let out a shrill, pig-like wail.
"Julian, you've lost your mind!"
Louise was livid. She rushed over with a towel, pressing it against Bill's wound, pulling him into her arms like he was something precious.
"It's okay, Bill. I'm here."
Bill's eyes rimmed red, his voice thick with pitiful, choked-back sobs:
"It's my fault, Louise. I'm the one who upset him. Please don't blame him."
Even now, Bill was still playing the innocent martyr.
Louise held him tighter and whipped around to snarl at me:
"You're an unreasonable lunatic, Julian."
"I want a divorce."
"Fine. I agree."
My voice was flat. Not a ripple of emotion.
Louise froze, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily.
Under her stunned gaze, I turned and walked out of the room.
On the drive home, I contacted a private investigator.
My instructions were clear:
"Look into Louise Sullivan. The past five years—every movement, phone record, transaction, anything you can dig up. The more detailed, the better."
I opened the front door. My five-year-old son, Alvin Gilbert, was in the living room playing with his toys.
"Daddy, what's wrong?"
He looked up at my expression and asked with concern.
I smiled and ruffled his hair.
Looking closely, Alvin didn't really look like me. He resembled his mother—Louise—much more.
But for the past five years, I'd trusted Louise completely. I had never once questioned Alvin's parentage.