Sloane lowered her head, forcing out a few aggrieved tears to play the victim, clinging tightly to Grant’s arm as if seeking protection.
Grant immediately frowned, his voice turning cold: “Claire, she is pregnant with twins. The doctor said Sloane’s emotional state needs to stay stable. Don’t use that tone with her. Let’s just end this amicably.”
His mother, Eleanor, lightly tapped her deep-red manicured fingers on the polished walnut table, cutting in with a patronizing tone: “Ten million dollars plus a villa in the suburbs of Boston. That is the absolute limit of the Whitmore family. Claire, for an orphan girl with no background like you, this amount is enough to live luxuriously for three generations. Sign it, and disappear from Chicago.”
I looked at the three people in front of me. A mother-in-law who always viewed her aristocratic bloodline as supreme; a husband of eight years who was ready to discard his wife the moment he found a replacement “surrogate”; and a mistress using her pregnancy to wedge her way into high society.
They thought I was struck dumb by pain. But in reality, it took everything in me to suppress a smile.
“Fine, I’ll sign,” I replied calmly.
Sloane looked up, unable to hide the smugness and contempt in her eyes. Grant let out a sigh of relief as if a heavy burden had just been lifted. They had no idea that this ten million dollars would become the down payment for the coffin that would bury the entire Whitmore dynasty.
One year later.
The Peninsula Chicago was covered in white roses, prepared for a wedding of the century. After the divorce procedures were finalized, the Whitmore Group threw its full weight into publicizing the grand wedding of the young chairman and his talented lover, who had given birth to the twin heirs exactly six months prior.
In the VIP dressing room, Sloane was admiring her million-dollar diamond-embroidered wedding gown. Suddenly, the door swung wide open.
It wasn’t the groom. It was me—Claire.
