He did not answer.
Victoria walked toward Ava and knelt carefully beside her.
For the first time, Ava’s composure nearly cracked.
Not because of Grant.
Not because of pain.
Because her mother’s hand, warm and steady, covered hers on her belly.
“Baby moving?” Victoria asked softly.
“Yes.”
“Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Pain level?”
“Eight.”
Victoria nodded once.
No panic.
No useless tears.
No performance.
Just assessment.
Just action.
Just love with steel inside it.
Grant laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it.
“You planned this.”
Ava looked up at him.
“You invited your mistress to our anniversary dinner.”
“You planned this,” he repeated louder.
“You broke my arm.”
“You trapped me.”
“You broke my arm,” Ava said again.
The second time she said it, one marshal looked at Grant’s hands.
Grant noticed.
His fingers flexed at his sides.
Savannah saw it too.
And for the first time since Ava had known her, Savannah Vale looked afraid.
Not guilty.
Afraid.
There was a difference.
Guilt looks inward.
Fear looks for exits.
Savannah looked toward the hallway leading to the guest wing, then toward the bar, then toward Grant’s phone on the table.
Ava watched every glance.
The mistress was not just scared of scandal.
She was scared of something else.
Something bigger than an affair.
Something that had not walked into the room yet.
The EMTs arrived six minutes later.
Ava knew because she watched the antique clock above the dining room doors.
Six minutes from radio call to entry.
Three minutes to stabilize her arm.
Four minutes to get her onto the stretcher.
During those thirteen minutes, Grant tried to speak to her twice.
Victoria blocked him both times.
The first time, he said, “Ava, don’t do this.”
Victoria stepped between them.
“She did not do this.”
The second time, he lowered his voice and said, “Think about the child.”
Ava looked at him from the stretcher.
“I am.”
That shut him up.
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