Part 2: My husband opened my private hospital-room door—and caught Isabella standing over me with one red heel pressed against my body while I lay on the marble floor protecting my seven-month pregnant belly.

Two nights later, the Greenwich estate was wrapped in absolute silence.

It was 2:00 AM. Leo was sleeping soundly in the custom-built mahogany crib positioned right beside our king-sized bed. Marcus lay beside me, fast asleep, his breathing slow and steady, his arm draped protectively over my waist.

I slowly slid out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. My throat was dry, and I slipped on a silk robe to head downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water.

As I stepped onto the wide, carpeted landing of the second floor, a soft chime sounded from the ground floor.

It was the front door delivery signal.

I frowned, freezing in place. *A delivery at two in the morning?*

Marcus had strict protocols: no deliveries were ever brought past the security gatehouse at the bottom of the estate without his personal authorization.

I leaned over the ornate balcony railing, looking down into the massive, marble-tiled grand foyer.

The double mahogany entrance doors were closed, but resting directly in the center of the foyer floor was a large, elegant wooden delivery crate, draped in heavy black velvet and tied with a thick silver ribbon.

Beside the crate stood a tall, slender woman dressed entirely in black.

She wasn't a delivery driver. She was staring straight up at the second-floor balcony—directly at me.

When she saw me looking down, she slowly reached up and pulled down her silk scarf.

My breath caught in my throat. My heart slammed against my ribs with sickening force.

It was not Isabella. It was someone far worse.

It was Victoria Sterling—Marcus’s mother, who had supposedly died in a private plane crash twelve years ago.

Victoria looked up at me with cold, piercing blue eyes that perfectly mirrored Marcus’s own. She raised a single finger to her lips, signaling me to stay silent.

Then, she pulled a small brass key from her pocket, set it on top of the velvet-draped crate, and stepped backward into the shadows of the open side terrace door, vanishing silently into the dark night.

Trembling violently, I crept down the grand staircase, every instinct screaming at me to run back and wake Marcus. But some dark, inexplicable gravity pulled me toward the crate.

I reached the bottom step. The air around the box was ice-cold.

Resting on top of the velvet ribbon was an unsealed handwritten note addressed to Marcus in exquisite, vintage calligraphy:

*“You defeated Raymond, my clever son. But Raymond was only the foot soldier. The family empire you stole never belonged to your father, and it will never belong to your bastard child. Look inside the cradle I built for Leo. The timer has already begun.”*

From inside the sealed crate, through the thick wood and velvet, came a faint, rhythmic sound.