Chapter 4

I recalled Grandma Evelyn's constant reminders that a wife should always prioritize her husband's family.

Following that logic, I spoke up again. "I'm doing this for your own sake, Quentin. If something happens to you, at least half the assets will be protected. Otherwise, you might end up with nothing at all."

Quentin Hayes ground his teeth, his face reddening as he roared at me for cursing him with such dark possibilities.

Sophia Newell chimed in, her voice thick with practiced sorrow. "Quentin, it's all my fault. I'm just too clumsy. I failed during the practice procedure, and Eliza must blame me. That's why she wants to divorce you."

She let out a series of broken sobs, wailing about how she should pay for my mother's life with her own.

With a sudden, dramatic movement, she bolted toward the hospital window.

Quentin caught her in his arms, holding her tightly.

"Sophia, don't do this," he whispered, his voice dripping with tenderness. "It breaks my heart to see you like this."

As he comforted her, Sophia conveniently fainted in his arms. Quentin's gaze shifted back to me, his eyes filled with even deeper loathing. He swept Sophia up in a bridal carry, his muscles tensing with irritation.

"I am not giving you half," he barked at me. "If you want compensation, I can toss you a few assets. But don't even dream of touching anything related to the company!"

Dissatisfied, I returned to Lawyer Miles Rivera and explained the situation.

Miles handed me a revised divorce agreement. This version didn't just ask for a simple fifty-fifty split.

Hayes Biotech was valued at nearly a hundred billion dollars, with monthly net profits reaching into the hundreds of millions and vast holdings in real estate.

The new document targeted the fixed assets, claiming two-thirds of his properties and half of his liquid wealth.

While it represented less than a share of the actual company stocks, it was a massive, tangible fortune.

I didn't quite understand the strategy at first, but Miles explained that by starting with an outrageous demand and then offering a slight compromise, Quentin would be more likely to sign just to be rid of me.

I took the new agreement to Quentin.

He glanced over it with an impatient scowl, actually offering a backhanded compliment on my newfound "sensibility."

After scrawling his signature, he sneered, "Consider this your payout. Now go sign the death certificate protocol and get your mother's body out of the hospital."

The law required a thirty-day cooling-off period before the divorce was finalized.

Hearing his command, I felt a wave of genuine confusion. Had he really not looked at his mother's face during the dissection?

"Quentin, I can't sign those papers," I said plainly. "And I can't take the body. You are her son. You are the only one who can sign for her."

"I don't care if you take her or not," Quentin snapped, waving me away. "If you don't, she can rot in the morgue for all I care!"

He kicked me out of the office.

I went back to the mansion, packed a few changes of clothes, and moved out.

During the following month, he didn't reach out once. Instead, Sophia's Instagram feed was full of updates. She posted photos of the lavish vacations Quentin took her on to help her "recover" from the trauma of her failed medical practice.

Once the thirty-day cooling-off period ended, the asset transfers were completed.

Quentin and Sophia arrived at the Los Angeles County Clerk's office hand-in-hand.

The moment we received our final divorce decrees, Sophia and Quentin immediately applied for a marriage license.

Sophia brandished the new marriage certificate in my face, her expression triumphant.

She made a show of hugging and kissing Quentin right in front of me, leaning into him as if to stake her claim.

Right then, Quentin's phone vibrated. It was a call from Dr. Patel at the hospital. The doctor's voice was urgent and strained. "Mr. Hayes, your mother's body has been sitting in the morgue freezer for a month now. When exactly are you planning to come and collect her?"