Duke bent to retrieve a shard of glass, then took my hand, patting it as one might comfort a child.
"Gertrude Sullivan, I know this is sudden. We'll talk later."
I shoved him away, my whole body trembling.
"What is this, Duke? What are you doing?"
His brow creased—not with guilt, but irritation.
"Gertrude. We have guests. Remember your dignity. I said we'll discuss this later."
He paused, his gaze drifting to Stacy. She stood apart from the crowd, head bowed, the picture of wounded innocence.
His expression softened instantly.
"Stacy is carrying my child. This baby's status is... significant. I have to give her legitimacy."
"A child?"
The room spun. Darkness crept at the edges of my vision.
Thirty years. I had managed his household, run his company, cared for his aging parents. When he was starting out with nothing, I'd mortgaged my own family inheritance to build what became EmpireStar Group.
And he had done this. Behind my back. Given another woman a child—a "blessed heir," no less.
I stared at him until my jaw ached from clenching.
"So tell me. After thirty years... what am I to you?"
"You got the title. You got me. Don't be greedy enough to demand my whole heart."
Duke kept his voice low, smile unwavering as he raised his glass to the gaping crowd below. As if we were discussing dinner plans. Tomorrow's meetings.
Something trivial.
A dull blade sawed back and forth across my chest, each stroke stealing my breath.
Thirty years. Thirty years, and all I'd ever had was his body—never his heart.
I looked out at the guests below, their whispers rising like steam. Those eyes that once glittered with envy had transformed into something worse: pity. Curiosity. Each glance a needle finding its mark.
Slowly, I unpinned the corsage from my chest and placed it in his palm. When I spoke, my voice came out sharp enough to cut—a tone I'd never used with him before.
"Duke. I built half of EmpireStar Group with my own hands. You don't get to hand my shares to some bastard child."
"You want your little mistress to take what's mine? Then get out of my company first."
I didn't cling. Didn't cry. Didn't make a scene.
I was fifty-five years old. I knew what mattered now.
I turned and walked out of that banquet hall without looking back.
I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to a small cottage on the outskirts of the city—the place where I kept the ugliest secrets of my thirty-year marriage.