“LET GO OF HER!”
The roar shook the very foundation of the room. Julian Sterling exploded through the threshold, dressed in an immaculate charcoal-black tuxedo. But the polished, charming prince was gone. His veins bulged like thick cables against his neck, his jaw was clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently, and his eyes burned with an icy, terrifying fury that seemed completely alien. For a split second, Julian didn’t look at Emily’s face—his gaze locked with deadly precision onto Victoria.
“Julian!” Emily cried out in agony.
In a fraction of a second, Julian lunged. He didn’t pull Victoria back; he struck her with the open palm of his hand, a strike so brutal it hurled Victoria across the balcony floor into the suite’s stone wall, where she collapsed, dazed and bleeding from the temple. Moving with chilling efficiency, Julian grabbed Emily under the arms. Veins corded on his forearms as he hauled his seven-month-pregnant bride over the shattered parapet, tumbling with her onto the safe, blood-smeared floor of the bridal suite.
Emily lay gasping, curling into a protective ball around her stomach, sobbing uncontrollably. The entire bridal party and half a dozen security guards poured into the suite, freezing in stunned horror at the sight of the blood, the shattered rail, and Victoria sobbing hysterically on the floor.
Julian held Emily against his chest, his hands firm, his voice soothing. “I’ve got you, my love. You’re safe. You and our child are safe.”
Emily clung to him, weeping into his lapel. But as she looked up into the face of her husband-to-be, she caught a glimpse of his expression before he noticed she was looking. He wasn’t looking at Emily with relief. He was staring down at Victoria, and across his handsome face swept a slow, deliberate smirk of cold, triumphant malice—a look that chilled Emily deeper than the freezing wind hanging over the four-story drop.
The silence that gripped the master suite of Blackwood Manor was thicker than the suffocating mountain fog. Downstairs, the chamber orchestra had abruptly ceased playing. The delicate clinking of crystal flutes had been replaced by the frantic murmurs of three hundred aristocratic guests whose world had just fractured. In the courtyard directly below the broken balcony, the heavy stone baluster lay smashed into powder against the rim of the ancient fountain, surrounded by torn white tulle.
Two armed security guards dragged Victoria to her feet. Blood trickled down her cheekbone from where she had hit the stone wall, matting her auburn hair. Her emerald dress was torn at the shoulder, exposing pale, trembling skin. Yet, despite being physically restrained, she did not look defeated; she looked utterly possessed.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” Victoria spat, thrashing against the guards’ iron grips. Her eyes tore past the staff and locked onto Julian, who was kneeling over Emily, stroking her damp hair with rhythmic, calculated precision. “Tell her, Julian! Tell her what you did to Dad! Tell her before you murder her like the rest of them!”
“She’s having a psychotic episode,” Julian said smoothly, his voice cutting through the panic with the cool authority of an operating surgeon. He didn’t even turn his head to look at Victoria. “Call the private medical transport. Have her sedated and placed under twenty-four-hour psychiatric hold at St. Jude’s immediately. Clear the grounds. No press. Not a single camera leaves this estate.”
“Julian, wait…” Emily gasped, clutching her belly as a sharp, agonizing contraction ripped across her abdomen. “Victoria… why did she say that? What is she talking about?”
Julian looked down at Emily, his face instantly softening into a portrait of devoted, heart-wrenching agony. “Darling, don’t listen to her. Victoria has been unraveling since the board voted to remove her from the trust last month. She blames me for her own financial recklessness. She’s completely lost her mind.” He leaned down, his lips brushing Emily’s sweat-soaked forehead. “All that matters right now is you and the baby. The paramedics are taking you to the private wing at St. Jude’s.”
Elena, the brave maid who had saved Emily’s life, knelt beside them, pressing clean linen napkins against the shredded skin of Emily’s hands. Elena’s hands were shaking violently, but her eyes were darting between Julian and Victoria.
“Look at his cufflinks, Emily!” Victoria screamed as the guards dragged her backward through the double doors. Her voice was growing hoarse, shredded by desperate panic. “LOOK AT THE GOLD ENGRAVING! HE WAS THERE THAT NIGHT! HE KILLED HIM! HE PLANNED THE BALCONY! THE BALCONY WAS RIGGED—”
A guard clamped a leather-gloved hand over Victoria’s mouth, muffling her screams into pathetic whimpers as they dragged her down the corridor.
