My husband stood in my hospital room with his mistress on his arm, watched the monitor go flat, and whispered, "It’s finally ours." He thought I had died giving birth to his heir.

The days following the press conference were a series of rapid, devastating blows to the Holden family.

Agnes Holden was formally indicted on charges of reckless endangerment, possession of controlled substances with intent to distribute, and conspiracy to commit fraud. Her bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars—an amount she couldn't pay because her personal accounts had been frozen as part of the Moore corporate audit.

Claire Temple, facing fifteen years in prison, had already begun to sing.

Evelyn met me in the penthouse office of the Moore Grand Headquarters, where I sat with Clara sleeping in a bassinet beside my desk. The walls were covered in deep mahogany, the windows looking out over the bustling streets of Manhattan.

"Claire has offered a full confession in exchange for a plea deal," Evelyn said, sliding a transcription of the police interview across the desk. "She has confirmed that Mark was fully aware of his mother’s plan to use the herbal extracts to force an early, dangerous delivery. She also admitted that Mark had forged your signature on several key estate documents that would have transferred your personal shares to him in the event of your death."

I read through the transcription, my heart growing colder with every line. "He was going to let me die, Evelyn. He was standing there, watching the monitor, waiting for the last beat."

"He was," Evelyn said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "But he made a fatal error. He assumed Dr. Jonathan wouldn't look closely at the chart. And he assumed you were alone. You are never alone, Rebecca."

"What’s his move now?" I asked, closing the folder. "Julian Sterling must know they can't win the custody battle with a pending criminal conspiracy charge hanging over Mark’s head."

"Sterling is trying to negotiate," Evelyn said. "He called me this morning. He’s offering to sign a full waiver of all parental rights and custody claims in exchange for a ten-million-dollar settlement and the dismissal of the corporate fraud charges against Mark’s architectural firm."

I let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Ten million dollars? He wants a prize for trying to kill me?"

"I told him to go to hell," Evelyn smiled grimly. "But Sterling threatened to drag this through the press. He’s claiming they have personal records—letters, emails from your early marriage—that show you were emotionally unstable, and that he will use them to drag your father’s name through the mud during the divorce trial."

"Let him try," I said, standing up and walking to the window. "My father’s legacy is built on stone and steel, not gossip. But we need to make sure Mark doesn't have the chance to speak. We need to cut off his air supply."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Mark’s firm has one major project that isn't funded by us," I said, turning to face her. "The waterfront development in Miami. It’s his last remaining asset, his last shred of credibility. Who is the primary investor?"

Evelyn checked her tablet. "The Vanguard Group. Owned by... Richard Sterling. Julian’s brother."

"Call Richard," I said, a slow, cold smile spreading across my face. "Tell him that if Vanguard doesn't pull its funding from Mark’s firm by tomorrow morning, the Moore Grand Collection will permanently sever all joint venture agreements with Vanguard’s hospitality division worldwide."