SHE TRIED TO DESTROY HIS BABY IN THE SHADOWS, BUT THE RED LIGHT IN THE CEILING RECORDED HER SINS—AND HER BILLIONAIRE HUSBAND’S VENGEANCE WAS UNFORGIVING!

Back in the penthouse, Clara was growing frantic.

Thirty minutes had passed since Julian walked out. She had poured herself a crystal tumbler of scotch, but her hands shook so badly the amber liquid splashed over the rim.

She marched down the hallway to the nursery, intending to check on Lily—or rather, to inspect the burn mark and figure out how to conceal it with makeup before Julian returned.

She turned the brass handle.

The door was locked.

“What the hell?” Clara muttered. She twisted the knob violently. “Open this door!”

From inside, the heavy bolt remained firmly engaged. Suddenly, the lock clicked, and the door swung open just two inches, held by a heavy interior security chain.

Framed in the gap was not Julian, but Marcus—a six-foot-four former Marine who served as Julian’s most trusted shadow. His face was an immovable slab of granite.

“Excuse me?” Clara gasped, her voice shrill with indignation. “Marcus? What do you think you’re doing in my daughter’s room? Step aside!”

“Mr. Vance’s strict orders, ma’am,” Marcus said, his voice flat and robotic. “No one enters the nursery until he returns.”

“I am Mrs. Vance! I am the lady of this house!” Clara screamed, slamming her palms against the door. “You work for me! Open this door right now, or I will have Julian fire you into poverty!”

“My contract is exclusively with Julian Vance, ma’am,” Marcus replied coldly. “Step away from the door.”

He closed the heavy door and slid the deadbolt into place.

Clara’s heart seized in her chest. A cold, prickling dread began to crawl up her spine. This wasn't normal. Julian didn't deploy Marcus for domestic disputes. Marcus was used for corporate espionage, for high-level threats, for hostage negotiations.

*Did Julian see something?*

Her mind raced back to the nursery. The iron. Elena grabbing her.

*The ceiling.*

Clara gasped. Her blood ran ice-cold.

The gilded plaster rose above the crib. She remembered Julian’s eyes drifting upward before he left the room.

“No… no, no, no,” Clara whispered, clutching her head. Sarah had always been paranoid about nannies. Sarah had installed hidden cameras throughout their previous home. Had Julian installed one here?

Panic, raw and wild, overtook her. If Julian had footage of her holding that iron to Lily’s face, her marriage was over. The prenuptial agreement had an ironclad infidelity and abuse clause: if she committed a felony against a family member, she walked away with zero dollars. Not a single cent. And worse—the police would be involved. The debts she owed to Christian Cole’s underworld creditors would consume her alive.

She needed to access the penthouse’s local server.

Clara sprinted down the hall to Julian’s study. She grabbed the brass handle. Locked. Biometrics only.

“Damn it!” she shrieked, kicking the solid wood.

She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers and dialed Christian Cole.

“Christian!” she hissed the moment the call connected. “We have a catastrophic problem.”

*“What did you do, Clara?”* Christian’s voice sounded muffled, strained.

“Julian might have footage. From the nursery. I lost my temper with the brat, and the maid interfered. Marcus is guarding the room. Julian is downstairs.”

*“You idiot!”* Christian spat through the receiver. *“Are you insane? We were days away from finalizing the forged medical power of attorney! If Julian looks into your records, he’s going to uncover Sarah’s toxicology reports!”*

“What do I do?” Clara pleaded, tears of genuine panic now streaming down her face. “Tell me what to do!”

*“Get out of the penthouse,”* Christian ordered coldly. *“Pack your jewelry, pack whatever untraceable bearer bonds you can find in his safe, and meet me at the private hangar in Teterboro. We leave the country tonight.”*

“I can’t just leave with nothing!” Clara wept. “I suffered through months with that screaming baby! I watched Sarah die for this money! I deserve it!”

*“You won’t spend a dime if you’re in a federal penitentiary for the rest of your life, Clara! Get the jewelry and get out!”*

The call went dead.

Clara stood in the opulent hallway, her breathing ragged. She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, her glamorous facade completely decayed into desperate animal survival.

She turned toward the master bedroom to raid the jewelry vault.

She took three steps before the elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open with a soft chime.

Julian stepped out.

He was alone. His coat was off, draped over his forearm. He looked at Clara standing in the hallway, disheveled, hyperventilating, and clutching her phone like a lifeline.