“Every specialist we recommended, every imported drug, every piece of custom pediatric equipment—it all went through shell companies.”

“The billing records,” I muttered, remembering the thick files I had seen on Mrs. Bellamy’s desk.

“Exactly,” Evan said, nodding at me. “Mrs. Bellamy signed off on the invoices because she didn’t have a choice.”

The red light bathed his face in a grotesque mask.

“We drained two million dollars from your security trust last month alone,” Evan told Lorenzo.

“And you let my boy starve for money?” Lorenzo asked.

The sheer hatred in Lorenzo’s eyes made me hold my breath.

“It’s a business model,” Evan said. “A terminal child is a bottomless well of profit.”

The baby’s wail from inside the nursery grew louder, then choked off into a wet gasp.

My heart squeezed with a familiar, agonizing grief, remembering my own daughter’s silent crib.

“He’s choking,” I cried, pulling against Evan’s arm. “Let me go to him!”

“He’s not choking, Hunter,” Evan said, pulling me tighter against his chest. “He’s reacting to the final phase.”

“What final phase?” Lorenzo growled.

“The one that makes Julian a god,” Evan said.