It was a harsh reminder of the emergency C-section from thirty-six hours ago.

I braced my hand against the bedside table.

I took deep, shallow breaths.

The room smelled of heavy antiseptic and cold chicken broth.

Outside, the gray Florida rain beat against the double-paned window.

I walked over to the bassinet and looked down at my son, Leo.

He was so small.

His tiny fists were tucked under his chin.

I couldn’t let them take him.

I couldn’t let my father use him as a pawn to keep his financial empire from collapsing.

The heavy wooden door to my postpartum room creaked open.

Lena entered first.

Her face was pale, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her scrubs.

Behind her stood two young military police officers in pristine digital camouflage uniforms.

And behind them was my father.

Richard Mitchell wore a tailored gray suit that looked entirely out of place in a hospital ward.

His silver hair was perfectly combed.

He held a black leather portfolio under his arm.

“Rachel, sweetie,” he said.

His voice dripped with false concern.