Divorcing the Billionaire Who Called Me Dirty

His eyes drifted to Amber's stomach, and something complicated moved through them.

"She might be pregnant."

A downtown private hospital.

The obstetrics hallway reeked of disinfectant.

I knew that smell too well.

Three years ago, Neal had made me come here and go through eight gynecological exams.

Every time I lay on that cold table, the instruments probing into my body, the humiliation of it. I still remembered all of it.

I sat on the bench in the waiting area, watching the electronic call board on the wall.

"Amber Whitman, please come to Exam Room Three."

The nurse's voice echoed down the corridor.

Amber stood and held out her designer bag, the kind that cost well over a hundred grand.

"Sis, hold this for me."

She looked down at me, the corner of her mouth curling into a mocking smile.

"Neal said you know this place best, so I asked him to have you come with me."

I didn't take the bag.

She wasn't bothered. She tossed it onto the chair and leaned in close to my ear.

"You really can't blame Neal, though. In a situation like yours, any man would feel uneasy about it."

"An injury in high school gym class? That excuse wouldn't fool even me, let alone him."

She laughed softly, then turned and walked into the exam room, leaving me alone on the bench.

I folded my hands over my knees, my fingertips ice-cold.

Half an hour later.

Amber walked out holding her report, the satisfaction impossible to hide in her eyes and the set of her brows.

The nurse followed behind her and glanced at me.

"You're family, right? Go pay for the exam at the first-floor window. Is the baby's father not here today?"

Before I could say anything, Amber already had her phone out.

Right in front of me, she called Neal.

And made a point of putting it on speaker.

"Neal, the results are back." Her voice went soft and sweet, laced with a little hurt.

On the other end, Neal's voice was low, but I could hear the tension in it.

"How is it?"

"The doctor said I'm already six weeks along."

Neal's breath caught.

After a long moment, he said quietly, "If it's there, keep it. Don't be scared. I'll take responsibility."

I sat beside her, my heart aching so badly it felt like it was being drilled through.

Three years ago, I'd tried to explain to him how that membrane had torn by accident, and all I got back was his cold scrutiny and endless humiliation.

After our wedding night, Neal never touched me again, and I never got to be a mother.

Yet another woman had gotten it so easily.

Amber hung up and looked at me.

"Sis, did you hear that? Neal said he'll take responsibility."

I stood and picked up my handbag.

"Congratulations."

Today was actually my third wedding anniversary with Neal.

Inside my bag, the gift I hadn't gotten to give him last night was still there.

A pair of limited-edition obsidian cufflinks, ones he'd spent a long time searching for.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Neal.

"Book somewhere light for tonight. Amber can't have anything too rich right now. I'll come straight from my meeting."

I stared at the words on the screen for a long time.

Then I typed one word back.

"Okay."

At seven that evening, I brought the printed divorce papers and pushed open the door to the private room at Skyline Restaurant.

The mood inside was warm and cheerful.

Neal, Amber, and Candice Henson were already seated.

Neal looked up at me, his brow creasing slightly, as if I'd shown up too late.

"Mom's here. Don't ruin things tonight." He dropped his voice in warning, as though I were the outsider spoiling the mood.