On the day of our divorce, I stormed into the CEO’s office with my pregnancy test results.
He held his three-month-pregnant sweetheart in his arms and sneered, “Take the money and get out. Don’t dirty my place.”
Three years later at the airport, his fleet of Rolls-Royces surrounded my budget car.
“Mr. Gu,” I said, lowering my window just a crack, “you’re blocking the road.”
He glared at the three-year-old in my arms. “Whose little bastard is that?”
The kid suddenly hurled a bag of “poison” at his designer suit. “Bad guy, go away!”
When the bodyguards rushed over, the kid slipped through the security checkpoint and used a smartwatch to hack into the convoy’s systems.
“Mommy, run!” A powerful signal jammer crippled the luxury cars and set off their horns.
That night, after we escaped to a flower shop, the news on TV reported a plunge in Gu Group’s stock.
The doorbell rang. Gu Lichen stood in the rain, holding up a photo of the child. “Explain.”
Just as I shut the door, he stopped it with his injured hand. Blood trickled through the gap.
In a hoarse voice, he asked, “Who forged the miscarriage diagnosis from back then?”
