“Seraphine, what do you mean by this?” His voice was sharp, almost angry.
I bit back the chill crawling up my spine and prepared to talk about the divorce.
But he didn’t let me speak.
“Stop framing me! Ivy’s posts have nothing to do with your sister’s death. If you dare come to the hospital, stir up trouble, and ruin her graduation — or worse, jeopardize my position — we’re done! We’ll divorce!”
He hung up on me.
I sat there holding my phone, stunned.
My heart had already gone cold, but it still managed to ache. For one foolish moment, I thought he’d called because he saw the divorce agreement.
But no — he hadn’t even looked at it.
He only called to protect his mistress.
Suppressing my fury, I typed out a message.
“Lucian, I suggest you find out exactly whose sister was on that operating table today before you start barking at me.”
But when I hit send, a red exclamation point appeared.
Blocked.
I laughed aloud, bitter and incredulous.
Fine. If he didn’t care about his own sister, why should I?
That very afternoon, while entertaining an important client at work, I got the call — Helena had been in a car accident.
Without hesitation, I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital.