But the next second, she had me pinned against the wall, her hand tightening around my neck like it had so many times before.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked back hoarsely. “What the hell did you do to my daughter?!”
Facing her accusation, I was utterly baffled.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
But at the same time, a creeping sense of dread rose in my chest.
Ever since she had moved Barrett and their daughter into her private villa, any time something went wrong over there, she would come straight for me.
All because, in our past lives, I had refused to divorce her.
Even now—after all my compromises—Cherity still saw me through that same twisted lens.
She yanked me down to the first floor, where the nanny stood clutching the crying infant, her expression frantic.
Still trying to make sense of it all, I watched as Cherity pulled back the swaddle and lifted the baby’s sleeve.
I froze.
The child had just turned one month old, yet her delicate skin was covered in red rashes.
Cherity looked like she was about to lose her mind.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is for an infant? One wrong move and she could die!” she screamed.