96 The silence of the penthouse did not last eight minutes.

Henderson’s expression hardened.

Arthur Sterling held the antique cane beneath the chandelier, turning it slowly until the dark stain along its polished surface caught the light.

“But no one touches him,” my father continued. “We do this through the police, the courts, and every lawful channel available. I want him conscious when he watches everything he tried to steal disappear.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henderson took the cane with gloved hands and placed it inside an evidence bag.

The paramedics rolled me toward the private elevator. My father walked beside the gurney, one hand resting on the metal rail as if releasing it would allow the world to take me away again.

As the elevator doors closed, I saw Henderson speaking into his microphone.

“Locate Julian Hayes. Lock down all airports, private hangars, train terminals, and Sterling-owned properties. Alert the NYPD liaison. Subject may be injured and dangerous.”

The elevator descended.

Every movement made pain explode beneath my ribs.

My father stared at the bruises spreading across my arms.

“How long?” he asked.

I knew what he meant.

How long had Julian been hurting me?

I looked toward the elevator ceiling because I could not bear to meet his eyes.

“The first time was eleven months ago.”

My father inhaled sharply.

“He apologized,” I whispered. “He said he had been drinking. He said the merger pressure was destroying him. Then he bought me flowers and cried.”

Arthur’s hand tightened around the rail.

“The second time?”

“Three weeks later.”

“And after that?”

“I stopped counting.”

His face changed.

Not into anger.

Something worse.

Guilt.

“I should have seen it.”

“I hid it.”

“You should never have needed to hide from me.”

The ambulance was waiting in the underground garage. Henderson’s security vehicles formed a dark wall around it, blocking photographers and curious residents from seeing me.

Before the doors closed, my father climbed inside.

“Sir,” one of the paramedics said, “we need room.”

“Then make room.”

No one argued.

At Sterling Memorial Hospital, an entire private floor was secured before we arrived. Doctors examined the cut along my mouth, the swelling around my left eye, and the long bruises across my back.

The pain medication softened the edges of the room but did nothing to erase the memory.

Julian standing over me.

The cane raised in his hands.

His face twisted with rage after I refused to sign the documents waiting on the dining table.

“You think being Arthur Sterling’s daughter makes you untouchable?” he had shouted.

“No,” I had said. “But these shares belong to the foundation. I won’t transfer them to your family.”

He had smiled then.

A terrible, empty smile.

“They will belong to us by midnight.”

The doctor’s voice pulled me back.

“Ms. Sterling?”

I opened my eyes.

A middle-aged woman in blue scrubs stood beside my bed. Her expression was calm, but there was something cautious behind it.

“Your ribs are badly bruised, but none are broken. You have a mild concussion and several deep soft-tissue injuries. We want to keep you overnight for observation.”

My father stood near the window, listening to every word.

“There’s something else,” the doctor said.

Fear tightened around my heart.

“What?”

“Your blood work showed elevated hormone levels, so we performed an ultrasound.”

The room became completely still.

The doctor lowered her voice.

“You’re approximately seven weeks pregnant.”

My father’s face lost all color.

I stared at the doctor.

“No. That can’t…”

“The pregnancy is early, but we detected cardiac activity. At this moment, everything appears stable.”

My hand moved toward my abdomen.

Julian had struck me repeatedly.

He had shoved me into the crystal table.

He had left me on the floor and walked away.

But somehow, inside me, a tiny heart was still beating.

“Is the baby safe?” I whispered.

“For now, yes. We’ll continue monitoring you carefully.”

My father turned away and pressed one fist against his mouth.

It was the first time I had ever seen Arthur Sterling cry.

The doctor left us alone.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then my father came to the bed and lowered himself into the chair.

“I failed you,” he said.

“No.”

“I spent my life protecting companies, investments, buildings, and people who were paid to stand beside me. But I did not protect my own daughter.”

“I pushed you away.”

“Because I taught you that needing help was weakness.”

He took my hand.

“That ends tonight.”

A nurse entered carrying my phone, which Henderson’s men had recovered from beneath the penthouse sofa.

The screen was shattered, but it still worked.

“Mr. Henderson said you might need this.”

The moment she placed it in my hand, the phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

My father reached for it, but I answered before he could stop me.

For several seconds, there was only breathing.

Then Julian’s voice slipped through the speaker.

Soft.

Controlled.

Almost amused.

“You always were dramatic, Clare.”

My body froze.

My father motioned for hospital security to trace the call.

“You nearly killed me,” I said.

“You fell. You became hysterical. By tomorrow, every newspaper in Manhattan will know about your addiction to prescription medication and your history of emotional instability.”

“I don’t have either of those things.”

“Evidence can be created.”

I heard traffic behind him.

A horn.

Then the faint sound of an airport announcement.

“You should have signed the papers,” he continued. “Now your father will lose much more than a few foundation shares.”

“What are you planning?”

Julian laughed.

“Arthur won’t live long enough to protect you.”

The call ended.

My father slowly took the phone from my hand.

He looked at Henderson, who had just entered the room.