The apartment building was nothing like the penthouse Victoria used to own.It was a modest third-floor walkup in Brooklyn, sandwiched between a laundromat and a coffee shop. The hallway smelled like someone's cooking—something with garlic and tomatoes. Paint peeled near the ceiling. The carpet was worn.Ethan checked the apartment number twice before knocking.Victoria opened the door in jeans and an old sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. No designer clothes. She looked completely different from the polished woman who'd accepted awards in his name.She looked almost happy."Ethan?" Surprise flickered across her face. "What are you doing here?""Can I come in?"Victoria stepped back, gesturing him inside. The apartment was small—a studio with a kitchen alcove, a bed in the corner, a desk by the window. Simple furniture, mostly secondhand. Architectural drawings covered the walls, but they were modest projects. Nothing grand."Coffee?" Victoria asked."Sure."

Derek couldn't sleep.It was two thirty AM and he lay in bed staring at his phone, the blue light harsh in the darkness. His browser was open to the same website he'd visited a dozen times this week.Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity Testing - 99.9% AccurateHe scrolled through the information again, even though he'd memorized every word.Test can be performed any time after 8 weeks of pregnancy. Requires only a blood sample from the mother and a DNA sample (cheek swab or blood) from the alleged father. No risk to the baby. Results in 7-10 business days.Derek clicked on the pricing page. Fifteen hundred dollars. Not cheap, but not impossible. He had the money. Could order the kit right now, have it delivered in three days.Except he needed Isabelle's blood.Derek set his phone on the nightstand and pressed his palms against his eyes. The problem wasn't the money or the logistics. The problem was that he couldn't do this without Isabelle's consent. Couldn't somehow trick her into giving

Derek spent three days spiraling.He'd call in sick to work, which was a lie. He wasn't sick—he was unraveling. He'd sit in his apartment staring at his phone, Ethan's contact pulled up, his thumb hovering over the call button.I need to tell him.But then he'd imagine the conversation. Ethan's face when Derek said he'd slept with Isabelle. The betrayal in his eyes. The friendship shattering.And worse—what it would do to Isabelle. She was already dealing with elevated blood pressure, preeclampsia risk, the stress of the pregnancy. If Derek told Ethan now, the fallout could endanger the baby.Derek would set his phone down without calling.Then pick it up ten minutes later and start the cycle again.He made lists. Actual written lists, like he could organize his way out of this nightmare.PROS OF TELLING ETHAN:- He deserves to know there's doubt about paternity- Better to hear it from me than discover it later- If baby isn't his, he should know before bonding completely- Lying to

The pain woke Isabelle at 2:17 AM.She'd felt cramping before—Braxton Hicks contractions, the doctor had called them. Practice contractions. Uncomfortable but normal. This felt different. Sharper. Lower. Wrapping around her entire abdomen like a vice.Isabelle sat up in bed, breathing through it. Waited for it to pass.It didn't pass. It intensified.She grabbed her phone from the nightstand with shaking hands. Pulled up the contraction timer app she'd downloaded weeks ago. Started the clock.Four minutes later, another contraction. Stronger. Making her gasp.This isn't normal. This is too early. Thirty-two weeks is too early.Isabelle scrolled to Ethan's contact. Her emergency contact. The person she'd call in a crisis even though they weren't together.He answered on the second ring, voice rough with sleep. "Isabelle? What's wrong?""Something's wrong." She could barely speak through the pain. "I'm having contractions. Real ones. Every four minutes.""I'm coming. Don't move. Call 91

Three months later, the verdict came down in a Manhattan federal courthouse.Victor Ashford was found guilty on forty-seven counts of human trafficking, twenty-three counts of kidnapping, eighteen counts of illegal medical experimentation, and numerous other charges that carried sentences measured in lifetimes.The judge gave him thirty years without possibility of parole.James watched from the gallery with Elena beside him and his parents behind him. When the sentence was read, his mother squeezed his shoulder. His father said quietly, "It's over."But James knew it wasn't over. Not really. Victor's network had been larger than just him.Still, twelve additional arrests had been made across five countries. Three facilities besides Nevada had been raided and shut down. Eight more survivors had been found and were receiving care.It was progress. Significant progress.James's parents had recovered remarkably well. The years of captivity had taken their toll, but the Thorne resilience