The night Leah Hollowell came to surprise her husband, she carried two things beneath her heart.

The snow had turned into a heavy, slushy downpour by Saturday evening, coating the streets of Greenwich Village in a slick, shimmering sheet of ice.

Inside Uncle Richard’s brownstone, the atmosphere was warm and secure. A fire crackled in the antique hearth, and the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the kitchen. Leah was sitting at the kitchen island, sketching a charcoal portrait of an old oak tree—the first time she had picked up a piece of charcoal in over four years.

Her lines were confident, fluid, and alive.

"You've still got it, kiddo," Richard said, walking in with a fresh glass of sparkling water and setting it beside her sketchbook. "In fact, your proportions are sharper than they were before you married that vulture."

Leah smiled, her pencil pausing against the heavy grain of the paper. "When you stop letting someone else dictate what beauty and productivity look like, the clarity is astonishing."

"Just remember," Richard cautioned, his expression turning serious as he checked the deadbolt on the heavy oak back door. "Marcus has police protection stationed outside, and the private security team is rotating shifts every four hours. Grant is desperate, and desperate men make fatal mistakes."

"I’m not afraid of him anymore, Uncle Richard," Leah said softly, placing her hand over her abdomen. "For the first time, I realize that his anger was never a reflection of my worth. It was just a shield for his own cowardice."

Before Richard could reply, the security monitor on the kitchen wall flickered.

The screen displayed the feed from the rear alleyway camera.

A black sedan with tinted windows had pulled up illegally blocking the narrow cobblestone service lane. The driver’s door opened, and a figure wrapped in a dark trench coat stepped out, keeping his head low beneath an umbrella.