The color drained from Ethan’s face so fast it looked like pale wax. The polished, unshakeable corporate facade cracked down the middle, revealing the shivering coward beneath.

Ethan sat on the other side of the glass, wearing an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his frame. His skin had taken on a gray, sickly pallor, and the arrogant smirk that had defined his personality for a decade was entirely gone, replaced by hollow, bloodshot eyes.

He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with trembling fingers. I picked up mine on the other side.

"You ruined everything," Ethan whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer disbelief. "I built this life. I made this firm what it was. You were nothing without me—just a quiet girl hiding in the kitchen!"

"You always underestimated what someone would endure while collecting evidence," I replied, my voice calm, clear, and projected through the secure intercom speaker.

"My mother..." Ethan choked out, a pathetic tear finally escaping his eye. "They put her in maximum security medical quarantine. Her heart is failing. You’re destroying your own family over a... over a pot of oil?"

"Your mother threw boiling oil over my body, Ethan," I said, my tone hardening like steel. "And you stepped over me to wipe your shoes. You signed your own death warrant the moment you walked out that kitchen door instead of calling an ambulance."

Ethan pressed his palm flat against the Plexiglas, as if he could reach through the glass and strangle me the way he had choked the life out of my independence for three years.

"There's nowhere left for you to hide," Ethan hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "When I get out of here—"

"When you get out of here," I interrupted smoothly, standing up from my chair and adjusting my coat, "you'll be facing forty years for federal wire fraud, attempted murder conspiracy, and corporate embezzlement. Your bank accounts are empty, your assets are seized, and your fancy legal team dropped your case this morning because your retainer bounced."

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His chest tightened, a sharp, cold panic piercing through the expensive...

$The silence of the boutique hotel room was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Two weeks had passed since Lena Moretti—formerly Lena Vance—walked out of Dante’s life, leaving behind an empire of glass, steel, and golden handcuffs. Now, sitting at a small laminate table with the ultrasound printouts clutched in her trembling hands, her life had completely fractured.$