Ava’s mouth curved faintly.
“I told you I had a plan.”
Victoria looked toward the fetal monitor.
“You also told me he would not become violent.”
Ava swallowed.
“That was the part I got wrong.”
For the first time, Victoria’s face softened.
Only a little.
Enough to hurt.
Ava looked away.
She did not want sympathy yet.
Sympathy made people lie down.
She needed to sit up.
She needed to stay clear.
She needed to remember the order of events.
The whisper.
The accusation.
The grip.
The fall.
The refusal to call an ambulance.
The threat.
The camera.
Savannah’s fear.
Especially Savannah’s fear.
Because Ava had spent eight months studying Grant’s empire, and she knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Grant Huxley loved money.
Savannah Vale loved access.
But neither of them loved each other enough to risk prison.
So why had Savannah whispered that lie tonight?
Why provoke him?
Why now?
The answer arrived at 1:17 a.m.
Not through the door.
Through Ava’s phone.
It buzzed on the rolling tray beside the bed while Denise adjusted the IV line.
Ava saw the blocked number and felt the room shrink.
Victoria saw her face.
“What is it?”
Ava picked up the phone with her good hand.
The message contained no greeting.
No threat.
No name.
Just a photograph.
Ava stared at it.
At first, her pain medication made the image swim.
Then it sharpened.
A small white crib.
A nursery painted pale green.
A silver mobile with moon and stars.
And on the wall above the crib, in gold wooden letters, one name.
HUXLEY.
Ava’s blood turned cold.
Her baby kicked once beneath the monitor belt.
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