As security flooded the hallway, Preston watched his uncle step out of the private elevator and whisper three words that made the entire hospital staff freeze.

The divorce was finalized three days later.

Fast.

Clean.

No messy court battle.

Preston had no choice but to agree to Emily’s terms.

No money.

No child.

No nothing.

But the peace didn’t last long.

A week later, Emily got a subpoena.

Preston was fighting the criminal charges.

His new lawyer— the best defense attorney money could buy, paid for by Margaret, who’d liquidated her jewelry collection to hire him— was claiming Preston was an innocent victim.

That Harold had manipulated him.

That Emily had framed him.

That she was an unstable, bitter wife who’d faked the kick, planted the embezzlement evidence, and stolen the hospital from the poor, unsuspecting Whitmore family.

The deposition was held in a downtown law office.

Emily sat at one end of a long conference table, her lawyer next to her, Raymond behind her, holding her hand.

Preston sat at the other end, his lawyer next to him, Margaret in the back row.

The lawyer, a man named Grisham with slicked-back hair and a shark’s smile, started in on her immediately.

“Ms. Whitmore— or should I say, Ms. Saint Claire now?” he said, smirking. “You had a very good year, didn’t you? Your husband cheats on you, you suddenly ‘find’ embezzlement evidence, you take over a billion-dollar hospital, you ‘find’ a secret four-hundred-million-dollar trust fund. It’s almost like you planned it all.”

Emily stared at him.

“I didn’t plan for my husband’s mistress to kick me in the stomach when I was eight months pregnant,” she said. “I didn’t plan for my father-in-law to kill my mother. I didn’t plan any of this. I just reacted when my family was threatened.”

Grisham laughed.

“Reacted? Or saw an opportunity? You were a school teacher making forty thousand dollars a year. Now you’re a billionaire. That’s quite a promotion. Tell me, Ms. Saint Claire— did you ever really love Preston? Or was he just your ticket out of Ohio?”

Emily’s hand tightened on the table.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice shaking. “I loved him more than anything. I gave up my job, my home, my whole life to move here and be his wife. He promised to take care of me. To protect our son. Instead he cheated on me, stole from my mother’s hospital, and watched while his mistress kicked our unborn baby. I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted a family.”

Grisham leaned forward, his voice getting sharper.

“Then why did you have Vanessa followed for six months before the kick? Why did you hire a private investigator to take photos of her and Preston? Why did you set her up that day in the hospital—”

“Objection!” Emily’s lawyer snapped. “That’s speculation with no basis in fact.”

“Withdrawn,” Grisham said, smirking. “Let’s talk about the baby, shall we? You’re thirty-seven weeks pregnant. You’ve refused to let Preston see any ultrasound photos. Refused to even tell him the name you’ve picked. Why? Is it because you’re scared a paternity test will show the baby isn’t even his?”

The room went silent.

Emily felt her face get hot.

“How dare you,” she whispered.

“Is it true, Ms. Saint Claire?” Grisham pressed. “Did you cheat on Preston? Is that why you’re so desperate to keep him away from the baby? Because you know he’s not the father—”

“Enough.”

Everyone turned.

Vanessa Cross was standing in the doorway.

She’d been called as a witness for the prosecution.

She wore an orange jail jumpsuit, her hands cuffed in front of her, her hair pulled back.

Grisham’s face fell.

“Ms. Cross, you’re not supposed to be here yet—”

“I heard everything,” Vanessa said, walking into the room. “And I’m not testifying for you, you piece of shit. I’m testifying for her.”

She nodded to the court reporter.

“Preston knew about the kick,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “He planned it. We talked about it for a week. He said if Emily had a miscarriage, he wouldn’t have to pay child support. He could divorce her and marry me, and we’d get half the hospital. He told me to kick her as hard as I could. Right in the stomach. He said it would look like a catfight. That no one would believe the quiet little wife over us.”

Preston stood up, screaming.

“You lying bitch! You said you’d help me—”

“Guards!” the judge, who was presiding over the deposition, yelled.

Two bailiffs grabbed Preston, shoving him back into his chair.

Vanessa kept talking, looking right at Emily.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything. I was stupid. I was greedy. I lost my own baby three years ago at this hospital because Harold cut the budget for the high-risk maternity ward. I thought if I helped Preston take over, I could change things. I was wrong. None of it was worth hurting you or your baby.”

She turned back to Grisham.

“And for the record? The baby is Preston’s. I saw the ultrasound photos. I heard him brag about it a hundred times. He knew it was his. He just didn’t want it. Not if it meant being tied to Emily forever.”

She was led out by the bailiffs.

Grisham sat down, his face white.

He knew.

It was over.

The deposition ended ten minutes later.

Emily walked out of the conference room, Raymond’s arm around her.

She felt like she could breathe again.

Like the last piece of the Whitmore nightmare was finally gone.