“Sign the papers, you barren waste! My mistress is giving me the heir you never could!” my billionaire husband roared, throwing the pen at my face. I smiled, signed the divorce, and slid a 15-year-old medical file across the table: “Congratulations on your freedom, Mark.”
PART 1: THE ARCHITECT OF RUIN The scratching of the Montblanc fountain pen against the heavy, cream-colored bond paper was the only sound in the executive suite. It was a rhythmic, scratching whisper, louder to Mark Sterling’s ears than the autumn storm currently battering the reinforced glass windows of the forty-fifth floor. To Mark, that…
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