For several interminable seconds, no one moved.

For several interminable seconds, no one moved.

Marcus Thorne felt as though the air had grown thin in the room. His gaze fell upon Khloé, curled up on the polished marble floor, her arms wrapped protectively around the child she carried. A blonde strand clung to her tear-streaked face, and each of her shallow breaths seemed painfully agonizing.

“Marcus…” she whispered.

The sound of her voice brought him abruptly back to reality.

He crossed the room in three hurried strides and knelt beside her.

“I’m here,” he said in a trembling voice. “Don’t move.”

His shaking hands hovered over her, hesitating, fearing that any touch might worsen the situation. He had negotiated multi-billion-dollar mergers without flinching, stood up to ruthless competitors, and survived corporate wars that had destroyed other executives.

None of that had prepared him to see his wife suffering.

Behind him, Isabella Rossi’s sobs intensified.

“I told her to calm down!” she cried, wiping away the tears that welled in her eyes almost too quickly. “She completely lost control. She attacked me first.”

Elaine Parker furrowed her brow.

For nearly twenty years, she had organized exclusive charity galas. Wealthy donors argued. Celebrities caused scandals. Politicians lied with forced smiles.

Yet, Isabella’s performance seemed rehearsed.

Marcus turned around slowly.

His eyes no longer betrayed any confusion.

It was pure anger.

“You expect me to believe that?” he asked quietly.

“I swear, it’s true!”

Isabella stepped back abruptly and pressed a trembling hand against her chest.

“She lost control.”

Marcus observed the shards of broken crystal scattered across the floor.

Then the overturned chair.

Then the dark red stain that was already appearing on Khloé’s side.

Nothing matched Isabella’s story.

Before he could respond, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

The suite door burst open once again.

Dr. Nathan Caldwell was the first to enter the room, followed by two ER nurses pushing an emergency gurney.

Just behind them appeared a tall, silver-haired man dressed in a charcoal suit.

His face hardened the moment he caught sight of Khloé.

“Move!” he ordered.

No one questioned him.

Marcus looked up, surprised.

“Uncle David…”

David Sterling knelt beside his niece, his usually stoic expression betraying deep emotion for the first time in decades. As chairman of the Sterling Medical Group—the company that owned the hospital—he had spent his professional life making impossible decisions with unshakeable composure.

Right now, his hands were shaking.

“Khloé,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

She nodded once before another wave of pain took her breath away.

Dr. Caldwell examined her quickly.

“We need to take her immediately to labor and delivery.”

“My baby…” Khloé whispered.

“We will do everything we can.”

The medical team delicately placed her onto the gurney.

Marcus never let go of her hand.

As they pushed her toward the elevator, David stayed behind.

He turned slowly toward Isabella.

“You should stay exactly where you are.”

His voice was quiet.

A dangerous silence.

Isabella forced another expression of fear onto her face.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

David slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone.

“I have already instructed security to lock down all exits.”

He paused briefly, just long enough for the silence to settle in.

“And before you say another word…”

“…know that this entire floor is monitored by synchronized security cameras.”

For the first time tonight—

Isabella Rossi lost all color in her face.

She finally understood.

The cameras had captured everything.

And cameras never lie.

An unusual silence reigned in the private security offices, located in the basement of the hospital.

No one took a sip of coffee. No one looked at their phone. All eyes were glued to the wall of monitors as David Sterling walked in, accompanied by Marcus.

“Pull up the video footage,” David said.

The hospital’s head of security nodded immediately.

“All four surveillance cameras in the executive floor corridor and inside have already been secured.”

Within seconds, the screens came alive.

The first video showed Khloé entering the suite alone. She looked exhausted, gently rubbing her stomach before sitting near the window. For several minutes, silence prevailed, and nothing happened.

Then Isabella appeared.

She didn’t knock.

She walked in with a confident stride and closed the door behind her.

The room remained silent, except for the faint audio captured by the security system.

Marcus listened as Isabella’s voice filled the room.

“You should have never stayed by his side.”

His jaw clenched.

The following minutes unfolded exactly as Khloé had described.

No threats.

No aggression.

Khloé repeatedly asked Isabella to leave.

She never raised a hand.

She didn’t even stand up until Isabella deliberately approached her.

Then came the impact.

A violent shove.

Khloé’s body crashed against the marble table.

Marcus instinctively closed his eyes for a moment.

However, the recording was not over yet.

The second attack was even worse.

The footage clearly showed Isabella taking two deliberate steps forward before driving the sharp stiletto heel of her pump into Khloé’s side.

There was no struggle.

No self-defense.

No confusion.

It was purely calculated violence.

An absolute silence fell over the room after the video stopped.

Finally, the security director spoke.

“I’ve reviewed hundreds of incident reports.”

He looked at the frozen image of Isabella on the screen.

“This was no accident.”

David crossed his arms.

“No.”

“It was intentional.”

Marcus didn’t say a word.

His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

For weeks, he had ignored the subtle warning signs.

Khloé had mentioned Isabella’s inappropriate remarks in passing.

The lingering stares.

The subtle insults.

The unnecessary physical contact at public events.

Marcus had always assumed they were misunderstandings caused by stressful social obligations.

The weight of guilt now pressed heavily on his shoulders.

“I should have listened,” he whispered.

David looked at him.

“You still can.”

Before Marcus could answer, his phone rang.

The caller ID displayed:

Obstetric Emergency Department.

His heart nearly stopped.

He answered immediately.

“Marcus Thorne.”