The thirty-one percent of Hawthorne Medical Systems that Grant wanted to control had not come from him.
It came from my father’s patents, my family’s money, and the trust my parents created before they died.
Grant had built his empire on foundations he liked to pretend were his alone.
Now he wanted the throne before our daughter was born.
And he had found a psychiatrist I had never met to help make me look unfit.
I opened the second phone.
The messages were cold, careful, and damning.
Sloane, the woman from the balcony, was helping him plan the filing.
Then I saw Grant’s reply.
“She’ll answer the hospital call. She always answers when scared. Pregnant women break.”
I placed my palm against my stomach.
“No,” I whispered. “They don’t.”