Emily tried to sit up, her breath hitching in her throat. Her father, Arthur Vance, had died four months ago in a fiery, single-car rollover on a remote coastal highway. The police had ruled it a tragic accident—brake failure caused by rusted hydraulic lines on a vintage Jaguar. Julian had stepped in the very next day, managing the funeral, taking over the helm of Vance Enterprises, and promising Emily that he would protect what was left of her shattered family.
*Why would Victoria bring up Dad now?* Emily thought, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
As Julian stood up to direct the incoming paramedics, Emily caught sight of his left wrist. His custom French cuff had ridden back during the struggle on the balcony. There, gleaming against the stark white fabric, was a vintage solid-gold cufflink bearing the insignia of an ouroboros—a serpent swallowing its own tail, with a tiny, uncut diamond set into the serpent’s eye.
Emily’s breath stopped.
Her father had collected rare antique jewelry. On the morning he died, Arthur Vance had been wearing that exact pair of cufflinks—an 18th-century heirloom he never took off. When the coroner returned his personal effects after the car was recovered from the ravine, the cufflinks had been listed as *missing, presumed incinerated in the vehicle fire.*
Yet there it was, resting against Julian Sterling’s wrist.
“Paramedics are here, Emily,” Julian whispered, crouching back down and taking her hand. His grip was warm, but to Emily, it suddenly felt like a band of freezing steel. “Let them take care of you. I’ll follow in the Maybach right behind the ambulance.”
Emily swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She looked into Julian’s crystal-blue eyes—the eyes she had fallen in love with, the eyes she believed held the promise of her future. For the first time in two years, she noticed the faint, rigid tension around his jaw. He wasn’t trembling from adrenaline. He wasn’t shaken by the fact that his pregnant fiancée had nearly fallen to her death.
He was annoyed that she hadn’t.
The rhythmic, electronic beep of the fetal heart monitor filled Room 402 of the St. Jude Private Pavilion. The sound was the only thing anchoring Emily to reality. *Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.* One hundred and forty-two beats per minute. Strong. Steady. Defiant.
Dr. Kenneth Harrison, a silver-haired obstetrician who had served the Vance family for three decades, adjusted the ultrasound wand over Emily’s swollen abdomen. He stared at the monochrome screen with intense concentration before letting out a slow, measured breath.
“The placenta remains fully attached, Emily,” Dr. Harrison said, turning the screen slightly toward her. “There is minor uterine bruising from the blunt trauma, and you’re experiencing mild, stress-induced Braxton Hicks contractions, but the amniotic sac is intact. Your little girl is a fighter. However, you cannot endure another shock like this. Your blood pressure is through the roof. If it doesn’t normalize by morning, we will have to perform an emergency cesarean section at thirty-one weeks.”
“Thank God,” Emily whispered, tears slipping silently down her temples and soaking into the thin hospital pillow. She closed her bruised, bandaged fingers over her stomach. “Is she really okay, Dr. Kenneth?”
“She is, my dear. But you need complete, uninterrupted rest,” the doctor said, gently patting her shoulder. “I’ve given strict instructions to security outside. No visitors without your explicit consent.”
“What about Victoria?” Emily asked, her voice cracking. “They brought her here, didn’t they? To the psychiatric wing?”
Dr. Harrison’s expression darkened instantly. He glanced toward the heavy, soundproof door of the room, as if checking for shadows beneath the threshold. “Victoria is in the secure psychiatric ward on the lower level. Julian had her admitted under an emergency civil commitment order. He brought in his own private physician to sign the paperwork.”
“His own physician?” Emily’s pulse spiked on the monitor. *Beep-beep-beep.* “Why not you? Why not our family doctor?”
Dr. Harrison hesitated, his eyes betraying a profound, uneasy fear. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Emily… Julian Sterling holds forty percent of the voting shares on this hospital’s board of trustees. He funded the entire new neuroscience wing two years ago. In this building, his word carries the weight of law. Be very careful what you say around the nursing staff.”
Before Emily could reply, the door swung open.
Julian stepped into the room, having already changed out of his tuxedo into an impeccably tailored charcoal cashmere sweater and dark slacks. He looked refreshed, calm, and utterly in control. In his hand, he carried a tall vase of rare black baccara roses—her father’s favorite flower.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Julian said pleasantly, though his eyes were cold as ice. “I’ll take it from here.”
