Running Away Pregnant
At my three-year anniversary dinner with Vincent Hartwell, his secretary deliberately poured red wine over my head. I finally reached my breaking point and slapped her in front of all the guests.
That very night, the incident spread like wildfire through high society circles. When my mother saw the leaked bedroom photographs of the two of them, the shock triggered a heart attack. She collapsed and died on the spot.
When I learned the news, I sank to the floor and cried all night. Meanwhile, Vincent stayed by his secretary's side, comforting her.
When he came home, he brushed past my disheveled state without a glance, loosened his tie, and spoke in that careless tone of his. "I've already buried the story. Don't let it happen again.
"I have a meeting tonight. Pull yourself together and get to the villa within thirty minutes. Madison needs you."
As he walked toward the door, he added over his shoulder, "She's fragile right now because of the pregnancy. If you do anything to harm my only child, I won't forgive you."
I listened without crying or arguing. However, after he left, I pulled the divorce agreement from my drawer that I had prepared weeks ago. Beneath it lay my own positive pregnancy test.
'Vincent, I'll leave to find my biological father in three days.'
This time, I was really leaving. I would make sure my father paid for every grievance I had endured over the last few years.