The penthouse suite of the Whitmore-Saint Claire Medical Center was reserved for royalty, heads of state, and Saint Claires. Emily lay on the plush, heated examination bed while the Chief of Obstetrics ran a scanner over her swollen belly.
The rhythmic, fast-paced thump-thump-thump of the baby’s heartbeat filled the quiet room.
“The baby is perfectly fine, Mrs. Whitmore,” the doctor said with a warm, reassuring smile. “The kick bruised your abdominal wall, but your uterus is well-protected. Your blood pressure is a bit high from the stress, but the baby is unharmed.”
Emily let out a breath she felt she had been holding for an hour. A single tear escaped the corner of her eye, sliding into her hairline. “Thank you, doctor. Truly.”
“We will keep you here overnight for observation,” the doctor said, bowing respectfully to Raymond before slipping out of the suite.
Once the door clicked shut, Raymond sat in the leather armchair beside her bed. He didn’t look like a ruthless billionaire anymore; he looked like a tired uncle who loved his sister’s only child more than anything in the world.
“I should have crushed him the day you introduced him to me,” Raymond said heavily.
“No,” Emily replied, staring up at the ceiling. “I needed to know. If he stayed loyal when he thought I was a poor, middle-class teacher, it would have been real. But the moment his father’s company gave him a promotion, he thought he had outgrown me.”
Raymond pulled a sleek black tablet from his briefcase and handed it to her. “Are you ready to outgrow him, Emily?”
Emily looked at the screen. It was a digital dossier. Preston’s bank accounts, Vanessa’s social media profiles, the Whitmore family’s corporate structure.
“Preston’s entire life is funded by a corporate allowance from Whitmore Enterprises,” Raymond explained, his tone shifting back to pure business. “Whitmore Enterprises is deeply in debt to the Saint Claire Trust. We hold their loans. We hold their leases. Hell, we own the building his mistress lives in.”
Emily’s eyes widened slightly. “You own Vanessa’s building?”
“I own half the luxury real estate in this city, Emily. The question is, how far do you want to go?”
Emily looked down at her stomach. She thought of Preston telling her not to embarrass him. She thought of Vanessa’s heel connecting with her body, trying to harm the innocent life inside her. She thought of the five years of cooking, cleaning, supporting, and loving a man who had laughed at her behind her back.
Her heart hardened into diamond.
“I want everything, Uncle Ray,” Emily said quietly. “I want his money. I want his pride. I want his family’s company. I want them to have absolutely nothing left but the clothes on their backs.”
Raymond’s eyes gleamed with fierce, terrifying pride. “That’s my girl. Sign here.”
He handed her a stylus. Emily signed the digital divorce papers, and then, she signed the executive orders activating her shares in the Saint Claire trust.
At that exact moment, across the city, Preston Whitmore was standing at a police station counter, trying to post bail for Vanessa with his black Amex card.
The machine beeped loudly.
DECLINED.
Preston frowned. “Run it again. There’s a hundred thousand dollar limit on that.”
The desk sergeant swiped it again. DECLINED.
Preston pulled out his phone, his hands shaking, and logged into his mobile banking app. Where there used to be seven figures, there was now a red notification:
