The hospital room smelled sharply of bleach and antiseptic, a stark contrast to the suffocating scent of the white roses scattered across the linoleum floor. Flynn remained frozen beside the bed, his broad shoulders slumped, the formidable CEO of Vance Global reduced to a hollow, trembling shell.

Twenty-four hours later, while Flynn was desperately trying to block every phone line to keep the police from executing an immediate arrest warrant, another visitor slipped into my private suite.

The door creaked open, revealing Selina Cole.

She wasn't weeping anymore. The theatrical vulnerability she had worn at our front door was entirely gone. In its place was a sharp, predatory smirk. She wore a pristine designer trench coat, stepping across the room with the casual arrogance of someone who believed she had already won the war.

"Well, look at you, Mabel," Selina whispered, pulling up a chair and sitting right beside my bed without an invitation. She crossed her legs smoothly. "I heard you lost the babies. Such a tragedy. But honestly, what did you expect? You were never meant to fit into Flynn’s world anyway."

I didn't flinch. I kept my breathing slow and steady, staring at her through half-lidded eyes.

"You staged that entire scene at the house," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet sharp enough to make her smirk falter for a fraction of a second.

"Staged?" Selina scoffed, leaning in close, her eyes flashing with malice. "Oh, Mabel. I didn't have to stage anything. Flynn is a weapon, and all I had to do was point him in the right direction. He has loved me since we were seventeen years old. You were just a placeholder—a warm body he married to appease his board of directors after my father forced us apart."

"And you think he’s going to protect you now?" I asked calmly. "He just found out you manipulated him into murdering his own children."

Selina let out a low, mocking laugh. "Flynn won't touch me. He's too terrified of losing the only piece of his past he has left. He’s already working on his lawyers to bury the police report, claiming it was an accidental domestic dispute. By tomorrow, Vance Global’s PR machine will paint you as the unstable one."

She stood up, smoothing down her coat, and leaned over my bed until her breath brushed my ear.

"Enjoy your hospital bed, Mabel. Because when you get out, you won't have a husband, a home, or a penny to your name."

She turned and marched toward the door.

Just as her hand grasped the brass handle, the door swung wide open, revealing two uniformed Chicago Police detectives and Dr. Marcus Reed holding a digital audio recorder.