He stepped closer to my chair, invading my personal space. He leaned down, dropping his voice to a low, intimate frequency designed only for my ears. “Whatever wild stories she’s been whispering to you, Eleanor, you need to understand that grief makes pregnant women incredibly dramatic. Hormones distort reality.”
I tilted my head, feigning polite confusion. “Grief?”
“Yes,” he murmured, his breath hot against the side of my face. “Grief for the fairytale life she imagined she’d have. Before she decided to become… difficult.”
The word hung in the frigid air. Difficult. It was his final warning. A promise of the violence that awaited her in the delivery room if I didn’t back off.
Inside my leather handbag, the encrypted phone violently vibrated three consecutive times.
ACCOUNTS FROZEN.
RECEIVERSHIP FILED.
FEDERAL WARRANTS ACTIVE.
I looked past Evan’s perfectly groomed profile, focusing my gaze on the tiny, rhythmic pulsing of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor. It was fast. It was stubborn. It was a war drum.
I slowly stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt. I finally met Evan’s eyes. They were dark, flat, and completely devoid of empathy.
“You know, Evan,” I said, my voice conversational, yet echoing loudly off the sterile tiles. “You really should have checked the deed to see who owned this room before you decided to threaten my child’s life inside of it.”
For the very first time since the day I met him, the arrogant, golden smile entirely vanished from Evan Vale’s face.
He stared at me, his hyper-analytical brain struggling to process the sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure. He opened his mouth to deploy another gaslighting deflection, but the heavy, synchronized thud of tactical boots marching down the clinic corridor silenced him before he could speak.
