The marble floor of our Gold Coast penthouse was cold beneath my palms, but the pain radiating from my ribs burned like liquid fire.

"Don't speak," Vincent said.

His voice didn't rise. It was a low, guttural vibration that sounded like scraping gravel. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated until the gray was nearly swallowed by darkness.

Sophia swallowed hard, attempting her trademark soothing smile, though her lips twitched. "Vince, honey, you’re pale. Sit down. You know how Claire dramatizes everything. How could she possibly be pregnant? You two haven't even—"

"I said, *shut up*."

The command whipped through the VIP waiting room, so vicious that the triage nurse behind the desk reached quietly for the security intercom.

Vincent looked down at his own right hand.

It was trembling violently. Uncontrollably.

He remembered the impact. The resistance of her skin, the awful sound of her skull snapping back, the terrifying hollow thud of her abdomen striking that heavy timber. He had felt frustrated. Angry that she had dared to challenge him, angry that she had cut off Sophia's unlimited card, disrupting the neat, compartmentalized illusion he had maintained for a decade.

He had prioritized Sophia’s bruised vanity over his wife’s dignity.

And in doing so, he had crushed his own flesh and blood.

The double doors of the trauma wing swung open. A nurse rushed out carrying three units of blood, her scrubs already flecked with red.

Vincent intercepted her like a desperate madman, gripping her shoulder. "Is she alive? Tell me if she's alive!"

"Sir, remove your hands!" the nurse commanded sternly. "She is in ventricular fibrillation! We are taking her straight to OR Four for an emergency laparotomy! You need to wait in the surgical family lounge!"

She broke free and sprinted down the hall.

Vincent stood paralyzed in the hallway. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, drenching his collar. He stumbled toward the wall, sliding down until his back hit the cold drywall, sinking to his knees on the industrial linoleum.

He buried his face in his hands.

"Vince, please get up," Sophia hissed, crouching beside him, her perfume—the heavy, floral jasmine he had bought her for her birthday—suddenly turning his stomach. "People are staring. You're the CEO of Moretti Capital. If someone takes a picture of you like this, the stock price—"

Vincent snapped.

He seized Sophia by the wrist, his grip bruising. Sophia gasped in genuine pain, her eyes widening in shock.

"Did you know?" Vincent snarled, his face inches from hers. "Did you know she was pregnant?"

"How could I know?!" she cried out, trying to wrench her arm free. "She didn't say anything! She just fell! Vince, you were the one who hit her! You can't blame this on me!"

*You were the one who hit her.*

The sentence carved through his chest like a rusty blade.

She was right. Sophia hadn't thrown the blow. He had. Sophia had only whispered the poison, but Vincent had drunk it greedily for ten years, choosing her convenience, her emotional games, her endless fabricated crises over the woman who had vowed to love him through sickness and health.

"Mr. Vincent Moretti?"

A firm, authoritative voice cut through the corridor.

Vincent looked up. Two uniformed Chicago Police Department officers were walking toward them, accompanied by a hospital social worker holding a clipboard.

Vincent let go of Sophia’s wrist. She scrambled backward onto a chair, rubbing her red skin, her eyes flashing with sudden fear.

"Yes," Vincent said hoarsely, pushing himself up against the wall.

"I’m Officer Kowalski," the older cop said, eyes scanning Vincent’s disheveled suit and wild expression with cool detachment. "The attending trauma surgeon just flagged this admission under mandatory domestic abuse reporting protocols. Your housekeeper reported an assault at your residence prior to calling 911."

Sophia gasped. "Assault? No, it was a domestic accident! She tripped!"

Officer Kowalski didn't even look at her. His gaze remained pinned on Vincent.