Divorced in the Delivery Room,My Husband’s Mistress Gave Him Disease

To watch Bartholomew Delgado pay the price with my own eyes—

I swallowed every humiliation.

Even when he paraded Madeline Pruitt at galas for all the world to see.

Even when he called me a clingy, dried-up hag in front of every camera and microphone in the city.

I endured it all.

For this exact moment.

I picked up the pen and signed my name on the divorce papers without hesitation.

Right on cue, Madeline's call came through, her sugary voice oozing through the speaker.

"Bartholomew, aren't you done yet?"

"I've already changed and I'm waiting for you..."

"Don't tell me you've gone soft because of the baby. You're not having second thoughts about the divorce, are you?"

"If that's the case, I'll never speak to you again!"

Bartholomew's breath hitched as he stared at the provocative photo she'd sent. His voice dropped, husky with want.

He smiled at the screen—that same careful, coaxing smile he used to give me—now lavished on his new prize.

Then he snatched the divorce papers from my hands and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The edge of the paper sliced a thin, stinging line across my palm.

The crash startled Noah into wailing.

The doctor rushed over to check on the commotion.

Bartholomew never looked back. Not once.

I let out a quiet breath and reached for my son.

But the doctor grabbed my hand first, his face tight with alarm.

"What happened to your hand? Did Bartholomew do this?"

"Come with me—we need to run tests. You know he has—"

He couldn't bring himself to say it.

But I lifted my head calmly, and for the first time in months, my smile was real.

"I've always been the one managing Bartholomew's health. Of course I know better than anyone."

I'd received his test results yesterday.

Exactly as I'd suspected.

HIV. Positive.

The infection had already spread to his cardiovascular system.

A common cold. A sudden sneeze. One bout of strenuous exercise.

Any of them could kill him.

Which meant that for the next month, every moment he spent with Madeline brought him closer to the grave.

During my hospital stay, Bartholomew whisked Madeline around the globe in celebration.

He bought her a mansion. A diamond ring.

He announced to the world that she was the real Mrs. Delgado.

He acted like a lovesick teenager, burning bright and reckless.

They threw money around at clubs, made eternal vows beneath the Eiffel Tower.

As if I'd never existed at all.

I couldn't be bothered to care. I had loose ends to tie up.

Once I'd recovered enough, I took Noah to the Delgado estate.

Inheriting the family fortune, securing my position at Delgado Group—none of it mattered if I couldn't win over the old patriarch first.

Edgar Delgado was the key to everything.

The moment I stepped through the doors, shouting echoed through the halls.

A teacup shattered against the wall, hurled by Edgar himself.

"Worthless wretch!" he roared at his grandson.

"Years ago, you turned this family upside down to be with that woman. And now—how long has it even been?—you want a divorce?"

"Generations of Delgado honor, dragged through the mud because of you!"

Bartholomew pressed his lips into a thin line, saying nothing, his body a shield around Madeline.

That stubborn defiance on his face...

For a split second, the sight made something twist in my chest.

Years ago, he'd knelt before Edgar with that same look, begging to marry me.

As the sole Delgado heir, the family had already arranged a far more advantageous match for him.