The next chapter uncovers secrets that have been buried for years.

-2-

The private medical wing of the Blackwood Mansion was more advanced than most suburban clinics, equipped with state-of-the-art diagnostic imaging machines, sterile surgical trays, and a dedicated team of elite trauma specialists kept on permanent retainer. Dr. Arispe, a graying, meticulous surgeon who had patched up gunshot wounds for the Blackwood syndicate for twenty years, moved with practiced efficiency as he set Ethan’s fractured arm, administering a localized pediatric sedative that finally eased the toddler’s agonizing sobs into a soft, exhausted slumber.

I sat in a leather armchair in the corner of the brightly lit medical suite, a nurse gently applying antiseptic and bandages to my scraped, bloodied palms. My ribs burned with a dull, throbbing ache where Serena’s designer heel had driven into my stomach, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the adrenaline still surging through my veins. Across the room, standing beside the stainless steel examination table, Victor Blackwood watched Dr. Arispe work with a terrifying, statue-like stillness. He hadn’t taken off his damp coat. He hadn’t blinked in twenty minutes. His entire focus was locked onto his sleeping son, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles stood out like iron cables beneath his skin.

“The bone fracture is clean, Mr. Blackwood, but it was subjected to severe torsional force,” Dr. Arispe reported quietly, stepping back from the table and snapping off his latex gloves. “It didn't happen from a simple fall. Someone gripped that wrist and twisted it with deliberate intent. He’ll need a cast for six weeks, and physical therapy afterward, but he’s going to make a full recovery.”

Victor nodded once, a sharp, rigid motion. “Thank you, Doctor. Leave us.”

Dr. Arispe and the medical staff filed out of the room in absolute silence, closing the heavy oak doors behind them.

The room grew so quiet that the faint hum of the medical monitors sounded like a ticking time bomb. Victor slowly turned away from the examination table, walking across the polished hardwood floor until he stopped directly in front of my chair. He towered over me, a dark, imposing silhouette of power and danger, but when he looked down at my bandaged hands, the harshness in his eyes shifted into something heavy and dark.

“You tried to shield him,” Victor said, his deep voice breaking the silence. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of fact. “With Serena standing right there, knowing what she is capable of, knowing what she could do to you... you threw yourself across the floor.”

“I couldn’t just let her hurt him,” I whispered, my voice still trembling slightly as I looked up into his dark, penetrating gaze. “He’s fourteen months old, Mr. Blackwood. He was crying for help, and she... she was treating him like an animal.”

“Victor,” he corrected gently, correcting the formal title for the first time. He pulled up a heavy chair, sitting down directly opposite me so our eyes were level. “You saved my son’s life today, Lily. Not for the first time, I’m beginning to realize. Tell me everything. Not just what happened today. I want to know what has been happening in this house over the last six months while I’ve been traveling for syndicate business.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine. For six months, I had bitten my tongue, swallowed my fear, and kept my head down because I needed this job to pay for my mother’s specialized medical treatments at St. Jude. I had watched Serena rule the mansion like a tyrant whenever Victor was away, pinching Ethan until he cried, locking him in his nursery for hours when his fussiness interrupted her phone calls, and whispering venomous threats whenever I dared to intervene. But I had never spoken up, terrified of being fired and left helpless on the streets of Chicago.

“She hated him, Victor,” I began, the dam breaking as the suppressed memories poured out. “From the moment you brought Ethan home after the surrogate arrangement was finalized, Serena treated him like a living reminder that you had obligations outside her control. Whenever you were out of town—which was most weeks—she wouldn't let the staff bring him downstairs. She complained that his crying ruined the acoustics of the mansion. She’d lock the nursery door from the outside so she wouldn't have to hear him.”

Victor’s hands gripped the arms of his chair so hard the wood groaned under his pressure. A low, menacing growl vibrated deep within his chest, sounding less like a man and more like a caged beast preparing to tear its way through steel bars.

“Go on,” he commanded softly, though his eyes burned with a lethal fire.

“Today... today was different,” I continued, swallowing hard as I relived the horror in the foyer. “Ethan woke up with a high fever. I was preparing his medication in the kitchen. Serena came downstairs, saw him crying in his walker, and lost her temper. She grabbed him by the wrist, dragged him across the marble because she claimed he was ‘tracking germs’ near the formal receiving area, and when I tried to stop her... that’s when you walked in.”

Victor sat in silence for a long, agonizing minute. He didn't curse. He didn't smash anything. He just slowly stood up, walked over to the window overlooking the sprawling, rain-slicked gardens of the estate, and stared out into the darkness.

“Marcus,” Victor spoke into the lapel mic of his shirt.