The fist never landed.
The surgeon slammed one hand against Travis’s chest while David caught his wrist mid-swing, and for the first time since I had married into the Thorne family, Travis looked confused that someone had stopped him.
Then his phone lit up again.
Pending Authorization: $100,000.
VANCE ESTATES.
Martha saw the name first.
Not Thorne.
Not Travis.
Vance.
Her face changed so fast it almost looked medical.
The Chief of Obstetrics shouted for security, but another voice cut through the room before anyone moved. It came from David’s phone, on speaker, calm enough to make every nurse turn.
“Put me where my granddaughter can hear me.”
Walter Vance.
Travis went still.
The man who had called me dramatic, locked me in a house, and accused me of wasting his money was suddenly staring at the phone like it had become a loaded weapon.
Then David reached into his jacket and placed three things on the counter: a photo of the broken oak door, the hospital intake record marked blood-stained shirt, and the security still of Travis locking the front door from outside.
Martha whispered, “Elara… what is this?”
I tried to answer, but the monitor screamed again.
Twin A’s line dropped.
The surgeon looked at Travis, then at me, and said, “We need the room cleared. Now.”
And that was when Walter Vance said one sentence that made Travis’s knees nearly buckle—
