The digital monitor beside my head did not chirp or hum. It screamed—a flat, sharp, endless tone that cut straight through the chaos of the room like a cold blade.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

"Twin A has no pulse!" Dr. Vance-Ames, the Chief of Obstetrics, roared over the alarm. "Fetal bradycardia! Get him off her NOW!"

Travis didn't hear her. Or perhaps he simply didn't care.

His fingers were still knotted tightly into my damp, sweat-soaked hair, pulling my neck back at an agonizing angle. His face was flushed crimson, his expensive silk tie askew, his mouth twisted into a snarl of pure, unrestrained greed and fury. He was holding his phone in his free hand—the screen still glowing with the fake $100,000 pending transaction notification David had sent to lure him out of the mall.

"You spent twelve thousand dollars on a private suite?!" Travis shrieked into my face, his warm, sour breath coating my cheek. "You think because you're pregnant you can just drain my accounts?! Where is the Vance transfer authorization code, Elara?! Give me the code!"

"Travis, let go of her!" Martha yelled from the doorway, though she made no move to pull her son back. She stood clutching a paper shopping bag from a high-end designer boutique, her eyes wide with shock as she took in the medical suite's mahogany paneling, the marble private bath, and the gold-embossed medical monitors. "She's doing this on purpose! She's trying to humiliate us!"

"Get your hands off the patient!" Dr. Vance-Ames ordered, lunging forward with two surgical nurses.

Before the medical team could touch him, a shadow fell over the bed.

David moved with the terrifying, silent speed of a man trained in military close-quarters protection. He didn't waste breath yelling. He simply reached out, caught Travis by the throat with one massive, calloused hand, and squeezed.

Travis’s eyes bulged. His grip on my hair loosened instantly.

David slammed him backward against the far concrete wall of the suite. The impact rattled the framed oil paintings on the wall and knocked the phone straight out of Travis’s hand. It clattered across the polished hardwood floor, landing right at Martha’s leather heels.

"If you touch Lieutenant Vance again," David whispered, his voice dangerously low, his thumb pressing directly into Travis’s carotid artery, "I will break your collarbone in three places before the police reach the floor."

"David... wait," I gasped, clutching my lower belly as another terrifying wave of pain ripped through my core. "The... the babies..."

On the central monitoring station, Twin A’s heart rate line remained completely flat.

"Emergency C-section, right now!" Dr. Vance-Ames shouted, snapping latex gloves over her hands. "Operating Room 4! We have less than three minutes before irreversible cerebral hypoxia sets in! Move, move, move!"

Orderlies burst through the double doors, unlocked the wheels of my high-tech hospital bed, and began pushing me out of the suite at a full sprint.

Travis was slumped against the wall, coughing and gasping for air, clutching his throat. As my bed was wheeled past him, his eyes locked onto mine.

"You're not getting a dime, Elara!" he choked out, his voice hoarse and bitter. "If those kids die because you dragged yourself to a private hospital, that's on you! I'm freezing every joint account today!"

Martha stepped back to let the gurney rush past, her face hardened into a mask of pure disdain. "Unbelievable. Using a false medical emergency just to steal Travis's hard-earned money. Wait until the family hears about this!"

They still believed I was poor. They still believed the money keeping their failing real estate firm afloat came from Travis's genius. They still believed I was an orphan with nowhere else to turn.

As the heavy stainless-steel doors of Operating Room 4 swung open, the surgical lights blinded me. An oxygen mask was strapped over my nose and mouth.

"Elara," Dr. Vance-Ames said softly, leaning over me as the anesthesiologist injected a milky liquid into my IV line. "Your grandfather, Mr. Walter Vance, is on a private jet from London. He landed ten minutes ago. Hold on, sweetheart. Just hold on."