Wife vs. Intern, A Luxury Showdown

Chapter 7

The moment Margaret Sinclair laid eyes on Emily Dawson, a barely perceptible furrow creased her brows.

Emily, dressed in an elegant gown, flashed a sweet smile as she greeted her.

"Good evening, Mrs. Sinclair. I'm Ethan's assistant, Emily Dawson."

With practiced ease, she took the tea set from the housekeeper and poured tea for Margaret, moving with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times.

"What a well-mannered girl," Margaret remarked, her eyes flickering with a hint of approval as she accepted the cup.

At dinner, Emily animatedly recounted Ethan's amusing stories from his time abroad.

When she hit the most entertaining parts, even Margaret couldn't help but laugh.

I quietly cut into my steak, watching the faint glint of triumph in Emily's eyes.

"Ethan's daily routine—" Margaret began, but Emily cut in, "Mr. Sinclair keeps a very regular schedule. His favorite—"

The atmosphere at the table froze.

Emily seemed to realize her mistake, her smile faltering.

"That should be my answer," I said softly, setting down my fork and knife.

"Mom, I have good news for you."

Margaret looked up, puzzled.

"I'm pregnant."

Margaret's chopsticks clattered onto the table.

"Really? Since when?"

"Three weeks."

I deliberately raised my voice, catching Ethan's fists clenching out of the corner of my eye.

Emily quickly interjected, "But Mr. Sinclair has been abroad for the past two months—"

Margaret's expression darkened.

I leisurely pulled out the medical report from my bag.

"Professor Williams conducted the examination himself. It's definitely three weeks."

Ethan's face shifted, darkening with barely contained rage.

"Sophia," he said, his voice thick with fury.

"Happy?"

I tilted my head at him, my gaze unwavering.

"While you and your assistant were off enjoying yourselves, I wasn't idle either."

"Say that again."

I stood, looking down at him.

"I said, this child isn't yours. Just like how your heart doesn't belong to me."

Ethan shot to his feet, his chair screeching across the floor.

I met his furious gaze with a cold, bright smile.

"How does betrayal feel?"

Emily flustered, trying to intervene, but Margaret silenced her with a single, cutting glance.

The room fell into a deadly silence, broken only by the sharp click of my heels as I walked out.

Ethan Sinclair's knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, his usually composed eyes now bloodshot.

He stared at my slightly rounded abdomen, as if his gaze could burn through it.

"Impossible..." His voice was strained, teeth clenched.

"We clearly..."

"Clearly what?" I stroked my belly with a cold smile.

"Clearly you spent every waking moment with Emily while expecting me to stay chaste?"

His Adam's apple bobbed violently.

"That was strictly business!"

"Business?" I swiped through my phone gallery, pausing on each photo.

"Midnight working dinners? Weekend business trips? And—" I froze on a starlit photo of them.

"This too?"

Ethan's face drained of color.

In the frame, Emily was practically glued to his side—and he was smiling.

"Poor memory, Mr. Sinclair."

I locked my phone.

"On my birthday last month, you canceled for a 'meeting'—while eyewitnesses saw you dining at the rotating restaurant."

Emily sprang from the sofa.

"We were discussing the Greenpeak project!"

"Silence."

I didn't even look her way.

"You've no voice here."

Margaret's teacup rattled against the table.

Her razor-sharp gaze swept over us before settling on her son.

"Explain yourself, Ethan."

Ethan's tie hung askew from his frantic tugging. He opened his mouth, but when he met my eyes—filled only with derision—he froze.

"Mrs. Sinclair, you misunderstand."

Suddenly, Emily knelt before me.

"I overstepped, but Ethan never—"

"Never what?"

I gripped her chin.

"Never noticed your daily social media gloating? Never saw you parading around in front of me?"

I shoved her away, spitting, "You've trained your pet well, Ethan."

He seized my wrist.

"Let's discuss this at home."

"Home?"

I jerked my arm free, pulling divorce papers from my bag.

"Sign these. Since Emily handles everything—let her iron your divorce papers along with your suits."

Margaret erupted in a violent cough.

When Emily moved to help, the older woman blocked her with her cane.

"Ethan," Margaret's voice could freeze hell, "you've disgraced this family."

I watched him stagger back, remembering how carefully he had cradled our marriage certificate.

How ironic—the man who once panicked over my papercut was now shedding tears for another woman.

"Oh," I turned at the doorway, "I forgot to mention—the baby's father is thrilled about parenthood."