Love Came Too Late,I Left With His Fortune

Warren Sanchez took a call on the way to my prenatal checkup.

A woman's voice came through the car's Bluetooth.

I'm back. Divorce her, all right?

Warren didn't answer. He tapped the button and hung up, offhand about it.

I thought that was a clean, decisive refusal.

Then that same night, he had his lawyer deliver the divorce settlement agreement.

Looking at the restraint held tight in his eyes, I signed calmly and asked, "Do you need me to move out tonight?"

Maybe because he didn't get the tears and the scene he'd braced for, something like surprise flickered across that cold, ascetic face of hisrare for him.

His voice came low and rough. "No need. This place will be transferred into your name tomorrow."

I nodded, obedient.

Warren didn't know that retreating to advance was a trick that never failed, not once, in our line of work.

I looked at the hard line of his brow and said quietly, "It's late. Get some rest, you have meetings tomorrow. I'll sleep in the guest room."

With that, I stood to go.

As I passed him, he suddenly caught my wrist.

His brows were drawn low, his lips pressed tight, something between confusion and anger.

He asked, "Freya Sullivan, why aren't you making a scene?"

"If I did, would you call off the divorce?"

Warren stiffened. In the end all he said, low, was, "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

I turned my head aside, letting the reddened corners of my eyes show, and murmured, "Mm. I believe you."

The elder Mr. Sanchez living room light stayed on all night.

By the time we went to the county clerk's office the next day to make it official, the compensation section of the agreement had grown by a few more pages.

Once the paperwork was done, Warren did something he'd never done before. He took hold of my hand, his gaze fixed on the slight swell of my belly, and said, "Let's have a meal together."

In the past, I would have been over the moon.

Warren had always been cold, distant, never once the one to reach for me first.

But now I took half a step back, lowered my head, and said, "Mr. Sanchez, that wouldn't be appropriate."

His brow furrowed deeper, as if my distance was something he couldn't get used to.

"Freya," Warren said, an edge of frustration in it, "we're only divorced, not enemies. We can still be friends."

I paused and didn't answer him.

After all, three years ago, he'd told me I wasn't even worthy of standing in front of him.

Taking my silence for agreement, Warren opened the car door for me himself.

Before, he had never done anything like that for me.

I dropped my eyes. "My morning sickness is bad. I can't stand the smell of restaurants."

Warren went still all over, as if only then remembering I was pregnant, and said again, low, "I'm sorry."

I nodded and told him politely, "Then I won't trouble you, Mr. Sanchez. I'll go now."

His lips pressed tighter, and something like anger rose in him.

But looking at my swollen, red eyes, he forced it back down.

"Get in. I'll drive you home."

This time I didn't refuse. Once or twice is retreating to advance; any more than that is just putting on airs.

The whole way, Warren kept starting to speak and stopping.

I knew what he wanted to say.

So I spoke first. "I'll get rid of the baby. I won't put you in a difficult position."

I thought the words were considerate enough. I didn't expect Warren's reaction to be nothing at all like what I'd imagined.

His face darkened, fury flickering in those pitch-black eyes.

"Freya, do you really not want to carry my child that badly?"

I froze for a moment.

Warren was normally a block of cold ice, quiet, rarely showing any feeling.

Apart from in bed, he had never once lost control.

This was the first time he had ever let anger show in front of me.

I didn't argue. I curled my fingers, gave the hem of my dress a small pinch, and asked instead, "We can't very well let this child be born carrying the name of a bastard."

Warren's jaw clenched hard, his thin lips pressed almost into a straight line.

After all, everyone in the circle knew that the one thing Warren hated most was an illegitimate child.

In these circles, no matter how many mistresses a man kept on the side, in public he would protect his lawful wife. There was an old saying: a man who wrongs his wife lets no fortune in. So they all kept up the act, one way or another.

Except for Warren's father.

The had been the first to bring his mistress and his bastard home.

Not long after, Warren's mother threw herself off a building.

Warren had been mistreated by his stepmother from childhood, and bullied by that illegitimate son.

Everyone assumed he would be crushed for good.

No one expected him to endure in silence, gathering evidence in the dark, until at eighteen he handed the report to the disciplinary board and sent his own father to prison with his own hands.

Then, with his grandfather's backing, he took over all of Sanchez Group.

By twenty, he had planted his feet firmly in the Sanchez family.

At twenty-one, the illegitimate son who had bullied him since childhood died in international waters, not a bone left of him.

From then on, everyone knew exactly where his one raw nerve lay.

And now Warren, his face grim, said with something almost like impulse, "Freya, have the baby."

I didn't answer.

Because the next second, his gaze went past me, through the car window, and landed on someone.

I followed his eyes.

Outside our front door stood a woman in a white dress.

At some point a light rain had begun, soaking her dress and her hair, making her look fragile and pitiful.

It took me only an instant to guess she was the one who had called Warren.

Sure enough, the next second Warren shoved open the car door and rushed to her, one big arm sweeping her in and locking her tight against his chest, holding her like some treasure lost and found again.

I thought I had prepared myself well enough, but watching this, the pain still made it hard to breathe.

So this was what Warren looked like when he loved someone.

In a daze, I realized he had already carried the woman back toward the car.

When he saw I was still inside, his brow creased slightly, and a chill crept into his voice. "Get out."

I bit down on my lip and pulled the door open. The moment I steadied myself, the car peeled away in a burst of gas, splashing mud and water all over me.

I stood there calmly, watching Warren's car vanish, then lifted a hand to wipe the rain from the corner of my eye before I went inside.

Nothing about the house had changed, yet even the lights felt cold to me now.

I fished out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in three years.

"Hey, Hailey Monroe. I've got a house to sell. Do you have any buyers on your end?"

The other end went quiet first, then, as if she'd realized something, she suddenly asked, "You got divorced?"

"Yeah."

"Let's meet tomorrow. We'll talk in person."

With that, she hung up, and my nose stung despite myself.

Hailey's reputation in the circle wasn't good. Rotten to the core, you could say. But she was the only one who had ever been good to me.

She was a famous gold-digger in the circle.

She didn't want a man, didn't want love. She only wanted money.

She was like a pretty vase, passed around and played with by all the rich heirs in the circle. Give her a little luxury and she'd orbit right around you.

Give her a car and a house, and she'd do far more.

Everyone figured that once she was no longer young and beautiful, she'd be cast aside. Instead she went straight for those heirs' fathers, and latched onto one powerful, high-ranking bigwig.

She'd gotten pregnant in secret and gone abroad to have his son.

From then on, Hailey never had to flatter this one and fawn over that one again, never had to be treated like some plaything.

At first, I couldn't stand her either.

I thought she had no self-respect, that she didn't value herself, that she'd made a wreck of her own life.

I even said as much to her face.

She heard me out, then said, "There are plenty of roads leading up in this world, but only two are left open to women. Either you become powerful enough to make every man bow down, or you find a way to squeeze money out of them."

"Men control the money and the power in this world. If you won't do everything you can to take it from their hands, and instead go on about your precious self-respect, then you're a joke."

"A woman needs money first before she has any backbone. And only once she has backbone can she ever have power."

I scoffed at all of it.

Not until a car accident cost me a leg, and I couldn't even scrape together the money for surgery, did I understand how much money really mattered.

Back then I didn't have a single person by my side. Hailey was the only one I could turn to.

Now, all these years later, she's still the only one I can go to.

I sat in the coffee shop with a bitter smile. The moment Hailey walked in and saw the state of me, she couldn't help frowning.

I started to greet her, and she cut me off. "This isn't the place to talk."

Then she took me to a private restaurant, got us a booth, and got straight to the point. "How much did you get in the divorce?"

I pulled the settlement agreement out of my bag and handed it to her.

Hailey took one look and broke into a delighted smile. "Warren really came through, didn't he. All the property in his name goes to you, plus a thirty-million-dollar payout. You made out like a bandit."

I don't know why my eyes suddenly went hot, but the tears wouldn't stop.

"Hailey, that wasn't what he'd meant to give me at first."

I'd seen the original agreement. Warren had offered me one apartment, nothing huge, about a thousand square feet, three bedrooms, plenty for one person.

The payout wasn't small either. Two million, plus half a million a year in living expenses.

It was more than enough for me to live comfortably on my own.

But to Warren, that money was a drop in the bucket. Enough to leave me with the illusion that I didn't deserve it.

Or maybe it wasn't an illusion at all.

Hailey didn't try to comfort me when she saw me crying. She just pulled a couple of tissues and pressed them into my hand, and only once I'd calmed down did she say, "Then you did well. Rich people are usually tightfisted. They're terrified of anyone coveting their money, women most of all. Getting this much out of Warren, that takes real skill."

I opened my mouth and didn't know what to say.

The truth was, when I married Warren, I never once thought about getting anything out of him. Hailey knew that too.

That's why, three years ago, when Warren and I registered our marriage, she was the one who cut off contact with me.

It was only when the divorce agreement landed in my hands that I couldn't accept it.

Couldn't accept being kicked out of the house over a single sentence from another woman.

So, without really thinking, I wanted to do something about it.

Hailey seemed to see right through me. She put the agreement back in my hands and said, "You did the right thing. When it comes to money and a man, you've got to walk away with one of them."

Then she called over the waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne.

"Freya, congratulations on climbing out of the grave that is marriage, and congratulations on becoming a rich woman. Cheers!"

My fingers tightened around the glass, and I didn't hide it. "Hailey, I'm pregnant."

"How far along?"

"Just three months."

Hailey slammed her glass down. "Warren really is a goddamn animal!"

She was so furious her vision went black. It took her a long moment to steady herself before she cut straight to it. "You're not far along. Get rid of it now, while you can."

I stared at her, eyes wide with shock.

I'd expected that once Hailey heard I was pregnant, she'd urge me to keep the baby and keep squeezing Warren for child support forever.

When she heard what I'd assumed, Hailey scoffed. "I do what I do because nobody's going to guarantee my future for me. You already walked away with a fat divorce settlement. Why on earth would you have a kid? You really want to be chained to Warren for the rest of your life?"

One sentence, and everything came clear.

The knot I'd been tying myself into over the baby slowly loosened.

I hated to let go of that little life, but my future was mine.

We talked all afternoon. As I was leaving, she said, "Remember to get a lawyer. Go through the compensation in the divorce agreement and make it airtight, all of it your own private property. Don't let Warren bury some trap in there and yank everything back the second you're divorced."

I didn't think Warren was the type to pull something like that, but just to be safe, I hired a lawyer anyway.

Sorting through the assets was more of a headache than I'd imagined. Warren had given me so much that I spent every day dizzy with it, no time left even to go to the hospital for the abortion.

I'd barely finished the inventory when Hailey messaged again to say she'd found a buyer and I needed to clear the house out fast.

So I threw myself into packing and moving.

I didn't call Warren to collect his things. I just tossed all of it.

It was only while I was clearing out the study that I turned up a sealed file envelope, the Sanchez Group's official seal stamped across the front.

That, I couldn't just throw away.

I thought about it, then called Warren.

The phone rang twice before it connected, but the voice that came through wasn't Warren's. It was a woman.

"Hello? What do you want with Warren?"

Her tone wasn't friendly. She must have seen how he'd saved my number and guessed who I was.

I kept my voice level. "Hi. Could you get Mr. Sanchez for me, please? He left some things at the house he needs to come pick up."

Instead, a mocking laugh came down the line. "Freya, quit the games. Warren isn't coming back to you."

And she hung up on me.

I listened to the dial tone drone on and on, a dull ache building behind my eyes.

I tried Warren's driver next.

To my surprise, he sounded deeply uncomfortable. "Miss Freya, Miss Pruitt gave orders. You're not allowed to contact Mr. Sanchez."

That was how I learned the name of the woman who could end my marriage with a single sentence. Hildegarde Pruitt.

There was nothing for it. I'd have to deliver the sealed file to Warren's company myself.

When Warren and I got married, we'd only signed the papers, no wedding, more or less a secret marriage, so the front desk at his company didn't recognize me.

All I meant to do was drop the file off and have them pass it to Warren.

But I'd been there only a moment when the receptionist suddenly said, "Good afternoon, ma'am. Mr. Sanchez would like you to come up."

I didn't think twice. I followed her up.

The instant I stepped into Warren's office, a cup of scalding coffee came flying straight at my face.

I lurched aside, but some of it still caught me. My left arm went red with the burn.

"You cheap little slut. You love playing the mistress that much? Can't keep your claws off Warren?"

And all at once I remembered something else Hailey had told me.

She'd said, "If the woman who broke up your marriage comes after you, don't take it. You've got leverage right now. You can make their skin crawl if you want to."

So I lifted my eyes to Hildegarde and smiled. "Miss Pruitt, Warren and I haven't even cleared the cooling-off period. Our marriage certificate is still perfectly legal. Which means you're the one who's the mistress."

Hildegarde clearly hadn't expected me to fire back. The humiliation twisted into rage, and she lunged, hand already raised to slap me.

I didn't dodge. I took it full on.

She hit hard enough to split the corner of my lip, drawing blood.

Seeing me like that didn't seem to satisfy her. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and drew back her foot, aiming a vicious kick at my belly.

I hadn't thought she'd sink that low. I twisted away just in time.

The second her kick landed on empty air, I turned and ran, shouting as I went. "Miss Pruitt, please, stop hitting me! I'll divorce Warren, I'll get rid of the baby too, just stop hitting me"

Hildegarde went wild with fury, chasing after me to shut me up, which was exactly what I wanted.

The executive floor was nearly empty, so putting on a show up there was pointless.

The elevator was too slow. I took the fire stairs instead.

By the time I reached the ground floor, I bolted straight out, pretending to trip and fall, screaming and crying in terror, and in an instant every eye in the lobby was on me.

I shouted it again, loud enough for the whole floor to hear.

"Miss Pruitt, please, stop hitting me! I'll divorce Warren, I'll get rid of the baby too, just stop hitting me"

But the uproar I'd expected never came. The employees stayed silent at their desks, not daring to so much as breathe too loudly.

Confused, I lifted my head, and my eyes met Warren's from across the room.