I did not answer her right away, choosing instead to let my eyes drift from her face to the hospital gown on the counter.
My gaze tracked upward, settling on the discreet black dome of the security camera mounted in the upper corner of the ceiling.
Marcus had constructed a magnificent kingdom of glass, steel, and unassailable reputation for himself.
But in his supreme, narcissistic arrogance, he had completely forgotten who actually owned the land he built it on.
“Sweetheart,” I said, my voice eerily tranquil as I reached over and shook out the folded fabric of the gown.
“Lift your arms and put this on right now,” I instructed her firmly.
She stared at me, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.
“Mom, did you even hear a single word I just told you?” she asked in confusion.
“I heard every single syllable, Cora,” I replied.
“Then why are you not terrified of him?” she asked.
I stepped behind her, gently guiding her left arm, then her right, into the sleeves of the clean garment.
I smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, feeling the raised welts beneath the thin cotton.
“Because,” I whispered while tying the strings securely over her battered spine, “your husband just made a spectacularly expensive miscalculation.”
Cora swallowed hard, her pulse visibly jumping in her neck as she looked at me with wide eyes.
I leaned around and pressed a soft, maternal kiss to her clammy forehead, offering her the warm smile of a suburban grandmother.
“Now, darling,” I said while patting her cheek.
“Let us go down the hall and listen to my granddaughter’s heartbeat together,” I decided.
I guided her toward the heavy oak door of the suite, but as I placed my hand on the handle, a cold thrill of anticipation coiled in my stomach.
Marcus thought he had cornered a frightened doe, but he did not realize he had just locked himself in a cage with a predator.
Chapter 2: The Document on Page Eighty-Seven
The primary ultrasound suite was kept at a temperature that bordered on cryogenic to keep the equipment cool.
Everything within the walls of Saint Jude was engineered to remind the patients that they were transient guests in Marcus’s perfect world.
Cora hoisted herself onto the examination table, wincing slightly as the paper crinkled beneath her tired body.
One hand protectively cradled the massive swell of her belly, while her other hand reached out to grab mine for support.
The ultrasound technician, a nervous young woman in seafoam-green scrubs, steadfastly avoided making eye contact with us.
She busied herself calibrating the machine, her shoulders tight with the unspoken tension in the room.
“Excuse me,” I said, my tone polite but commanding enough to stop her in her tracks.
“Is Dr. Kent planning to join us for this scan?” I asked with feigned curiosity.
The technician nodded far too eagerly, her eyes darting to the floor to avoid my gaze.
“Yes, Dr. Kent specifically requested to review the final third-trimester scan personally,” she answered.
“He should be here momentarily to oversee the process,” she added while checking the clock.
Of course he did, I thought to myself.
Men built like Marcus did not just want to control their victims; they craved a captive audience while doing it.
He wanted to stand in this room, playing the role of the devoted father, forcing Cora to swallow her fear while I watched on, oblivious.
I settled gracefully into the plastic chair beside my daughter’s bed and unclasped my leather handbag.
Beneath a packet of floral tissues and a folded silk scarf, my fingers found the matte-black casing of a secondary smartphone.
It was an encrypted device, operating on a satellite network entirely invisible to the local carrier Marcus utilized to monitor Cora.
Cora saw the device, and her breath hitched in her throat.
“Mom, please do not do anything,” she begged, her voice barely a breath.
“He has eyes everywhere in this building,” she warned me.
“He already knows how to inflict physical pain, Cora,” I replied softly as my thumb woke the black screen.
“Today, he is going to receive a masterclass in how legal paperwork fights back,” I promised.
I tapped a secure, heavily encrypted messaging icon, and a chat window materialized on the screen.
It connected me directly to Patrick Walsh, the ruthless corporate litigator who had served as my bulldog for three decades.
I typed a single word: “READY.”
Within four seconds, the three grey dots pulsed on the screen.
Patrick’s reply appeared: “AWAITING YOUR COMMAND, REBECCA.”
My thumbs flew across the digital keyboard with practiced, lethal speed as I sent my final orders.
“Execute everything,” I typed out.
“All fronts, now,” I confirmed.
