If you ever touch Selina again, I swear to God I will kill you.”

By the third day in the ICU, the legal and public relations machinery behind Julian Vance was operating at full throttle.

Because I was still medically sequestered, the narrative belonged entirely to them. I turned on the small television mounted on the wall and watched in silent fury as the local news broadcasted a press conference held on the steps of the Suffolk County Courthouse.

Arthur Finch stood at the podium, surrounded by flashing cameras. Standing slightly behind him was Julian, dressed in a somber navy suit, his arm draped protectively over Selina Cole, who wore an oversized black sweater and large sunglasses that barely hid the dramatic bandage wrapped around her forearm.

“My clients, Mr. Julian Vance and Miss Selina Cole, have fully cooperated with law enforcement regarding the tragic events of Tuesday afternoon,” Finch declared into the cluster of microphones. “While we understand the public’s intense interest, we urge the media to respect the privacy of Mrs. Nora Vance as she receives psychiatric and medical care. The rumors circulating regarding domestic violence are entirely fabricated and defamatory.”

A reporter shouted from the front row: “Mr. Finch! Are you implying Mrs. Vance’s injuries were self-inflicted?”

Finch smiled with cold, practiced precision. “We are not speculating on Mrs. Vance’s mental state at this time. However, forensic analysis will demonstrate that Mrs. Vance has struggled with severe, documented jealousy and instability regarding Miss Cole’s professional partnership with Vance Capital. Mr. Vance remains entirely dedicated to his wife’s recovery, despite the tragic nature of her outburst.”

They were laying the trap.

They weren't just claiming an intruder anymore; they were preparing to flip the script entirely. If the police found Julian's fingerprints on the knife, Finch would argue it was an act of tragic self-defense—that *I* had attacked Selina in a fit of hysterical rage, and Julian had been forced to disarm me, resulting in an accidental, catastrophic injury.

The remote control trembled in my grip.

Suddenly, the ICU door opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit walked in, carrying a leather briefcase. He had striking gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, and an aura of absolute, unshakeable authority.

Behind him, Dr. Sterling closed the door and turned the privacy lock.

“Mrs. Vance,” Dr. Sterling said quietly. “This is Liam Vance. He is Julian’s estranged first cousin, and the managing partner of Vance & Mercer Legal.”

I gripped the bedsheets, my guard instantly rising. “Another Vance? Get out.”

“I’m not Julian’s ally, Nora,” the man said, his voice deep, calm, and resonant. He set his briefcase on the rolling tray and opened it, pulling out a tablet. “Julian’s branch of the family ousted my father from Vance Capital five years ago using forged accounting ledgers. I know what Julian is. And more importantly, I know what Selina Cole is.”

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Why are you here?”

“Because Dr. Sterling is my sister-in-law,” Liam replied, looking toward the doctor, who gave me an encouraging nod. “When she told me what Julian did to you—and that he was parading Arthur Finch around the media trying to paint you as a lunatic—I knew I had to step in. If you allow Finch to control this narrative, the grand jury will never indict Julian. They will bury you in medical declarations and seal the penthouse records.”

“I have evidence,” I said, my voice shaking with raw emotion. “Julian thinks the recording was lost. He thinks the police have my watch.”

Liam pulled up a secure server interface on his tablet and turned it toward me. “The police *do* have your watch, Nora. Arthur Finch had a contact in the evidence locker attempt to corrupt the digital storage drive yesterday morning.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“They failed,” Liam said, a razor-thin smirk touching his lips. “Because your smartwatch didn’t just record locally. You set up a secondary mirror backup to your personal cloud storage when you bought that device two years ago. I had my firm’s top digital forensic investigator pull the raw audio file from the cloud server twenty minutes ago.”

Liam pressed play on the tablet.

Through the small speakers, the horror of that afternoon played back in pristine, terrifying clarity:

*“She’s gone.”* (Julian’s ragged breathing) *“I did it, Selina. Just like you said. We’re free.”*

*“Stop repeating everything.”*

*“What?”*

*“You weren’t supposed to ask questions after.”*

*“Her watch. Turn it off!”*

*“She’s still alive.”*

Hearing Julian’s voice say those words again sent a violent shiver down my spine, but this time, it wasn't fear that took root inside me. It was ice-cold, methodical rage.

“Is it enough?” I asked, looking up into Liam’s fierce gray eyes.

“It’s enough to put Julian in prison for attempted murder,” Liam said bluntly. “And it’s enough to bring Selina down for conspiracy. But if we release this now, Finch will claim Julian was in shock, that Selina was speaking hypothetically, and Julian’s family will post a ten-million-dollar bail within fifteen minutes. They’ll send him to a private clinic in Switzerland beyond extradition before the indictment is signed.”

“Then what do we do?” I demanded.

Liam leaned forward, resting his hands on the bedrail. “We let them hang themselves. Selina Cole didn’t just come back for Julian’s affection, Nora. Three weeks ago, Julian transferred forty-two percent of Vance Capital’s liquid portfolio into an offshore shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands under Selina’s maiden name. She is draining him dry. We let them believe they’ve won. We let them step into the spotlight at the Vanguard Financial Gala this Friday.”

“The Vanguard Gala?” I whispered. It was the biggest financial event of the year in New England. Every major investor, politician, and socialite in Boston would be in that ballroom.

“Julian plans to introduce Selina as the new majority managing partner of Vance Capital, claiming you have granted him full power of attorney due to your ‘medical incapacitation,’” Liam said, his eyes flashing with lethal anticipation. “They think you are dying in this bed, Nora.”

I looked down at my hands, then down at my belly, where my child’s future hung in the balance.