When Mrs Sutton Burned
In the fifth year of my marriage to Julian Sutton, the actress he’d stashed in a Hamptons villa, Chloe Vance, and I both became pregnant.
An elite psychic had predicted that the firstborn son would be the rightful heir to the Sutton empire.
However, on the day I went into high-risk, emergency labor, the medevac helicopter I had scheduled was diverted midway on Julian’s orders. He claimed Chloe was having a “scare” at her villa and needed to be rushed to the best private hospital in Manhattan.
My phone signal was blocked. I spent an entire night in agonizing pain at a suburban clinic until I passed out.
The next morning, only after news came that Chloe and her son were safe did Julian allow my transfer to another hospital.
But it was too late. My child died from prolonged oxygen deprivation, and my uterus was removed due to a severe infection.
Afterward, Julian held me with a rare tenderness. “I can’t marry Chloe, and you know Eleanor dislikes her. I was worried that if something happened to me, she’d have nothing. I had to give her an heir for security.”
He even said, “You’re already Mrs. Sutton. You don’t need another child to secure your place.”
I sneered internally. Worried about me? Please. He was just clearing the path for his mistress.
That night, I knocked on the door of Eleanor Sutton’s study. “You once promised my father,” I reminded her, “that as long as I helped Julian secure his position as CEO, you would grant me one request.”
I met her gaze and said, word by word, “I want a divorce.”