“The court has given you ample time,” Judge Mallory said.

She picked up her pen.

The scratching sound of her writing on a legal pad filled the room.

I knew what was coming next.

The legal framework was already in motion.

The forensic auditors were waiting in the federal building down the street.

If the judge signed the order, Callum’s empire would begin to dissolve before the sun went down.

I stood straight, my hands folded over my stomach, waiting.

The baby moved again, a gentle roll that made me draw a quiet breath.

Callum’s phone, lying flat on the wooden table, suddenly lit up.

The screen flashed with a name.

It was Vivian.

The phone vibrated against the wood, making a low, buzzing noise that seemed to echo.

Callum reached for it, his hand shaking.

“Put the device away, Mr. Prescott,” Judge Mallory said.

Her voice was flat and dry, like old parchment.

Callum did not look up from the dark screen.

“My mother is trying to reach me,” he said.

“Your mother is not a party to this custody action,” the judge replied.