The sterile electronic chime of the emergency dispatcher ringing through Arthur’s phone sounded like a death knell in the cavernous Vance estate.

Eleanor sat in a velvet armchair, crossing her legs with forced nonchalance, though a tiny bead of sweat traced a path down her carefully contoured cheek.

"You're wasting your time, Detective," Eleanor scoffed, checking her diamond-encrusted watch. "My lawyers are already en route. When they arrive, you'll be apologizing for this gross inconvenience."

"Let's play the footage first, shall we?" Detective Hayes said smoothly, pressing play on the central console.

The screen flickered to life. The audio was crisp enough to pick up the rustle of paper—the exact sound of the ultrasound being torn in half. The camera angle from the upper landing captured every horrifying detail in unflinching, cinematic clarity: Eleanor mocking Sarah, the cruel sneer, the verbal abuse, and then—clear as day—Eleanor raising both hands and violently shoving the pregnant young woman backward over the railing.

The room went dead silent.

Eleanor stared at the screen, her mouth opening slightly, the color completely draining from her face. The airtight alibi she had constructed in her head evaporated into nothingness.

"Clumsy feet, huh?" Detective Hayes remarked dryly, pausing the frame on Eleanor’s outstretched hands pushing into Sarah’s shoulders. He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Looks pretty premeditated to me. Attempted murder in the first degree, coupled with harm to an unborn child. That's a life sentence, Mrs. Vance."

"No," Eleanor whispered, her aristocratic facade finally cracking, revealing the desperate, cornered animal underneath. She stood up so fast her chair screeched against the hardwood. "You don't understand! That bastard child ruins everything! Julian left everything to that gold-digger! If that baby is born, the entire Vance fortune goes to a nobody!"