Sitting beside my premature twins’ incubators, my husband dropped a folder of divorce papers into my lap.

His pregnant mistress stood behind him, smirking in my custom maternity coat. “I emptied the joint accounts,” he whispered coldly.

“You and these runts are on your own.” I didn’t beg. I quietly signed the papers, picked up my phone, and called my grandfather—the ruthless billionaire who owned the very hospital network they were standing in.

They thought I was a broke orphan. Ten minutes later, hospital security dragged them out.

PART 1

The first sound my premature twins heard outside their incubators was divorce papers slapping down against my knees.

The second was my husband telling me they were too weak to be worth wrecking his life over.

I stared through the glass at Liam and Chloe, each of them barely bigger than my forearm, their tiny chests fluttering under wires and translucent tape.

Behind me, Dominic stood in an expensive charcoal suit, one hand resting possessively on the swollen belly of his mistress, Natalie.

She was wearing my coat.

It was a custom ivory maternity coat I’d ordered before the emergency delivery, embroidered on the inside with my babies’ initials. Natalie stroked the cashmere sleeve and smiled.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “Dominic said you wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”

Dominic dropped a pen onto the folder. “Sign.”

My incision burned as I shifted in the hospital chair. I’d delivered at twenty-nine weeks, hemorrhaged, and spent two days unconscious. Dominic had visited exactly once. Apparently he’d put the rest of that time to good use.

“I emptied the joint accounts,” he whispered coldly. “Canceled your cards too. The apartment lease is in my name. You and these runts are on your own.”