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.

The marshals did not arrest him in the penthouse.

That was another thing Grant misunderstood.

He thought no handcuffs meant victory.

He thought no cameras in his face meant control.

He thought being allowed to follow them to the hospital in his own car meant the night could still be managed by money, lawyers, and a private call to someone powerful enough to make it disappear.

But Ava saw her mother speaking quietly to one marshal by the elevator.

She saw the marshal nod.

She saw him look not at Grant, but at Savannah.

And she knew.

The trap was not closing around Grant first.

It was closing around the woman who had whispered.

At Lenox Hill, they put Ava in a private room with two officers outside the door and a nurse named Denise who had the calm hands of a woman who had seen rich men behave worse than poor ones and refused to be impressed by either.

The X-ray confirmed a fracture near the wrist.

The baby’s heartbeat came strong through the monitor.

That sound changed something in Ava’s chest.

Fast.

Steady.

Alive.

Grant stood outside the room, arguing with someone on the phone.

His voice bled through the door.

“No, listen to me. This is contained. My wife had an accident. She’s emotional. She’s eight months pregnant.”

Ava looked at her mother.

Victoria’s expression did not move, but she heard it too.

“She’s emotional,” Grant said again.

Ava almost smiled.

The old script.

The one men like him reached for when facts had bruises and women had witnesses.

Emotional.

Unstable.

Confused.

Hormonal.

Ava looked down at the hospital bracelet being fastened around her good wrist.

Her name looked strange printed there.

AVA WREN HUXLEY.

For years, Grant had made Huxley sound like a gift.

Tonight it looked like evidence.

Victoria sat beside the bed.

“You don’t have to speak tonight,” she said.

“I know.”

“But you can.”

“Do you want me to call Latham?”

Ava shook her head.

“Already did.”

Victoria’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“When?”

“Before dinner.”

Her mother studied her.

Ava’s mouth curved faintly.

“I told you I had a plan.”