In the clinic, Zoe leaned closer to Julian. Her perfume—tuberose and vanilla—was cloying.

"Julian, thank you," she whispered. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

As the scent hit him, a violent wave of nausea surged up Julian’s throat.

He recoiled, shoving her away. He shot to his feet and strode to the window, his hand clamped over his mouth, fighting the urge to retch. His face was pale.

Zoe stared, stunned.

"Quinn," Julian bit out, his back to the room. "Take Miss Miller home."

Without another glance, he stormed out of the clinic.

The nausea subsided the moment he stepped back into the mansion. He went straight to Sophie's suite. She was in a simple silk robe, her hair damp from the shower.

He didn’t knock. He pushed the door open and tossed a manila folder onto her vanity. It landed with a sharp slap.

Sophie glanced at the cover. "Divorce Agreement."

Her heart stuttered, but her face remained calm. She had been expecting this.

"Sign it," Julian said. His voice was empty. "You'll get the penthouse on Fifth Avenue."

He expected tears. A scene. He got nothing. She picked up the document and began to read.

"Is it because Zoe is back?" she asked. A statement, not a question.

He clenched his jaw. "That's none of your concern. Sign the papers."

Then, she caught it. The faint, sweet scent of Zoe's perfume on his suit. Her stomach churned.

She couldn't hold it back. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she bolted for the bathroom. The sound of her heaving echoed in the silent room.

At the exact same moment, Julian was hit by another wave of nausea, more powerful than the last. He doubled over, his body convulsing with dry heaves. The color drained from his face. He stumbled back, bracing himself against the wall.

Sophie emerged, wiping her mouth, her face as white as a sheet. She saw him, bent over, looking just as sick as she felt.

He must be so disgusted by her that it was making him physically ill.

She walked to the vanity and picked up a pen.

"I'll sign," she said, her voice steady. "But I don't want your penthouse. I don't want anything. I just want this to be over."

Her child would not be financed by his guilt.

Julian straightened up, watching her. He watched her reach for the pen, calm and resolved. The nausea clawed at his throat again. He moved before he could think.

He lunged forward and snatched the agreement from her hand just as the pen touched the paper.

He ripped it in half.

Sophie stared, bewildered.

He fought down the lingering queasiness. "This compensation is insufficient," he growled. "It's an embarrassment to the Carlisle—Vanderbilt name. My lawyers will draft a new offer."

He turned and strode out, as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Sophie was left standing amidst the torn pieces of her freedom.

In his study, the nausea finally faded. Julian sank into his leather chair. None of it made sense. His eyes fell on a bowl of green apples on a side table. Sophie had been eating them constantly for the past week.

On impulse, he picked one up and took a bite.

The crisp, sour juice flooded his mouth.

The sickness vanished completely.

He stared at the apple in his hand. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.