Undressed By His Arrogance-Chapter 302: Sharona Killed My Baby

"Anna, I...Sylvia was my daughter too. Our daughter!" he stammered. His mind raced to justify, to explain, to salvage. But even as he spoke, he realized that no words could undo the pain, the loss, or the anger etched into Anna’s expression.

"Sharona killed my baby! My baby..." Anna wailed.

"Anna, you have to calm down. The doctor says you shouldn’t be agitated. You gotta..." His words were cut off as another shot rang through the room, the bullet embedding into the wall with a splintering crack.

"God fucking damnit!!!" Tom exploded, lunging off the bed in fear. The impact of his fall sent a sharp pain through his ankle, a satisfying, sickening crack echoing in his bones. He was on the floor, heart hammering, fully aware that any sudden move could provoke another shot. "Anna, will you quit it!!! Enough!!!" he bellowed.

"You cannot scare me anymore, Tom," she said. The gun remained steady in her hand, but her eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere deep in memory. "My babies hated me because I didn’t protect them. Or maybe...maybe they hated me because I stayed silent." She laughed then, a hollow, broken sound. "I told myself my silence was protecting them. But maybe I was just a coward."

She shifted in the chair. "Daddy warned me," she continued. "He said, ’Anna, that man is poison.’ And I said it was Tom or no one. I was young. I was stupid." Her lips trembled as her eyes finally focused back on him. "I was in love. Daddy told me. Over and over. You were no good. I didn’t listen. Why? Why did you do it? For money? For Daddy’s money?"

"Anna, I’m begging you," he said. "Put the goddamned gun down."

The answer came in the form of another gunshot. The lamp beside the bed exploded into shards, glass raining down. "Don’t fucking tell me what to do!" she screamed, standing now, her entire body vibrating with rage.

"Somebody fucking call 911!!!" Tom roared toward the open hallway, panic clawing up his throat. He didn’t know if anyone could hear him, but the instinct to summon help was primal.

Another round went off, embedding itself into the far wall with a violent thud. "Shit!!!" Tom yelled, scrambling backward on his hands, pain shooting up his injured ankle. Fear stripped him bare, reduced him from a powerful man to a terrified one in seconds.

"My baby...God...my baby!" Anna sobbed. "My baby!!!" Her scream echoed.

"Anna...Anna..." he said softly. "Yes. Yes, I wanted the Orchard money. Sue me." He swallowed hard. "But you cannot deny I deserve it. I put up with all the nonsense..."

The barrel rose again.

"Wait! I didn’t know Sharona was going to do this!" Tom shouted. "I stopped talking to Sharona long ago. The bitch cut me off—she got greedy!" He gestured wildly, as if the air itself were a witness that might testify on his behalf. In his mind, this was still salvageable.

If he could just explain enough, soften the edges, redirect the blame, Anna would come back to him. She always did.

Anna stared at him, truly seeing him. "I should have stopped you long ago," she said quietly. "But the guilt of cheating on you was killing me." Her lips curved into a slow, wicked smile that made Tom’s blood run cold. "Don’t you ever wonder who Winn’s father is?"

"Anna, I really do not care about that," he said, scrambling to regain control of the conversation. "I love you. I love our family."

"And yet," Anna replied, "you have a whole other family." She took a step closer, the gun still trained on him, her posture rigid with a resolve that terrified him more than the bullets had.

"That doesn’t matter, Anna," Tom pleaded. "Please. Put the gun down." He held his hands out, palms up.

"I want a divorce," Anna said flatly. "Or so help me God, I will kill you in your sleep if you don’t give it to me."

"Fine! Fine! You got it!" Tom blurted out. Relief surged through him.

The door burst open, officers pouring in with guns drawn. Anna didn’t resist as they took her arm and disarmed her. She simply looked at Tom one last time.

"No! No, you don’t have to take her!" Tom shouted, scrambling forward despite the pain. "It was just a misunderstanding! A couple’s fight! She’s grieving!"

By the time he made it outside, supported by paramedics and flanked by officers, the world had already shifted. Beyond the iron gates, a sea of reporters waited, microphones raised, cameras flashing. His name was being shouted from every direction.

Questions flew at him—about the interview, about Anna, about Sharona, about Winn, about Sylvia.

Tom stood there, exposed, his carefully constructed life unraveling in real time. Somewhere in the chaos, a bitter thought crossed his mind: he had spent his whole life controlling narratives. And now, finally, the story was no longer his to tell.

"I’m gonna kill you, Winn. I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you." Tom muttered the words under his breath as the police cruiser carrying Anna disappeared down the driveway. Every humiliation of the past hours stacked neatly in his head: the interview, the shooting, the reporters, the way Anna had looked at him.

And through it all, one name kept echoing. Winn.

The paramedics insisted on checking his ankle. As they prodded and wrapped, he hissed through clenched teeth, the physical pain barely registering compared to the slow, corrosive rage blooming in his chest. When they loaded him into the ambulance, the siren wailed—a sound he associated with other people’s failures, never his own.

He lay back on the stretcher, staring at the ceiling as the vehicle lurched forward, and began cataloguing every possible way he could make Winn pay. He had raised Winn, molded him, broken him —and if he’d done it before, he could do it again.

By the time the ambulance merged into traffic, Tom’s mind had become a war room. He would survive this. He always did. But survival wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted retribution.