It was exactly eight forty-five in the morning.

The rain outside seemed to intensify, drumming a relentless beat against the glass.

I felt a sudden, sharp flutter in my stomach.

My daughter was moving.

I placed both hands over my belly, drawing strength from her presence.

I was not just fighting for a piece of real estate.

I was fighting for her future, for the security Nathan had tried so calculatingly to steal from us.

I heard the distinct chime of the private elevator opening into the foyer.

The board of directors had arrived.

Nathan’s heavy footsteps moved away from my door, heading toward the entryway.

“Arthur,” I heard Nathan say, his voice instantly shifting into his smooth, professional tone.

“What a surprise.”

“I apologize for the mess, we are currently doing some emergency maintenance.”

I unlocked the bedroom door.

The lock clicked open with a loud, metallic snap.

I turned the handle and stepped out into the hallway.

Sloane was standing near the kitchen island, her face pale, her fingers clutching her designer handbag so tightly her knuckles were white.