The surgical steel gleamed under the harsh nursery light, a cold sliver of rationality trapped in a room choked by panic.

Dominic Vale’s finger was white against the trigger of his Sig Sauer. The air in the room tasted of ozone and impending catastrophe.

"Evelyn. Drop it. Now." His voice wasn't loud; it was the quiet, lethal growl of a predator whose territory had been breached. In the Vale underworld, hesitation was a death sentence. He had survived three assassination attempts and a corporate war by trusting his instincts. Right now, his instincts screamed that the woman he was scheduled to marry in six weeks was a cold-blooded sociopath attempting to murder his orphaned nephew.

And yet, Evelyn didn’t flinch.

Her blue-grey eyes remained locked onto Noah’s chest, watching the shallow, labored rise and fall of the infant’s ribs. She ignored the gun pointed at her temple. She ignored Mara, who was currently clutching Dominic’s trousers, her sobs turning into desperate, triumphant wails.

"She’s going to slit his throat, Dominic! Look at her! Look at her eyes!" Mara shrieked, pressing her face against Dominic’s knee.

Evelyn finally raised her gaze. There was no madness in it. No panic. Just a terrifying, clinical focus that sent a strange, cold shiver down Dominic’s spine.

"The lavender oil, Dominic," Evelyn said, her voice steady as a metronome. "The bottle in the laundry wing. The one she uses for his blankets. It’s laced with Conium maculatum—poison hemlock. It causes ascending paralysis. Right now, his diaphragm is locking up. If I don't perform an emergency tracheotomy within thirty seconds, he will suffocate."

"Lies! She’s lying!" Mara screamed, scrambling to her feet with a sudden, unnatural agility that didn't match her previous frail, terrified persona. "She’s insane! Mr. Vale, shoot her! Protect your nephew!"

Dominic looked from Mara’s frantic, tear-streaked face to Evelyn’s unblinking stare. For two months, Evelyn had been a ghost in his house—distant, untouchable, aristocratic. She didn't cry for attention. She didn't fawn over his power.

Mara, on the other hand, baked his bread, kissed the baby’s forehead, and looked at Dominic with eyes full of a bruised, desperate devotion.

Choose, the silence of the room seemed to demand.

Dominic lowered the barrel of the gun—not toward the floor, but shifting his aim by a fraction of an inch.

"Step away from the crib, Evelyn," Dominic commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "Both of you. Hands where I can see them."

Evelyn didn’t move away. Instead, with terrifying precision, she pressed the tip of the surgical blade directly into the skin above Noah’s windpipe.

"If you shoot me, Dominic," Evelyn whispered, the first crack of emotion finally fracturing her voice, "Noah dies in your arms within two minutes. Make your choice."