“If She Loses That Baby, None of You Walk Away,” the Mafia Boss Warned—Then He Turned on His Own Dynasty Clare Whitmore did not fall.

It happened so fast Nathaniel didn't have time to react.

Victoria didn't aim for him. She lunged past him, her hands shoving violently against Clare’s shoulders.

Clare Whitmore did not fall gracefully. She was pushed.

A sharp scream tore from her throat as her feet slipped on the polished marble. As she tumbled down the grand staircase, she didn't reach out to grab the railing to save herself. Her arms instinctively closed around her stomach, curling her body to protect her unborn child.

"Clare!" Nathaniel roared, lunging forward, but he was too late.

The sickening sound of her body hitting the heavy stone steps echoed through the foyer. She rolled, hitting the landing hard, and lay completely still.

Every person standing on the top of the stairs knew exactly what had happened. Members of two of the most powerful families in America watched in silence.

Not one of them moved to help. Victoria simply adjusted her dress, breathing heavily. Douglas watched with cold calculation. Eleanor looked away.

Nathaniel scrambled down the stairs, falling to his knees beside Clare.

He reached her before she stopped sliding.

"Clare," he begged, his hands shaking violently as he touched her pale face. "Clare, please look at me. Please."

She groaned, her eyes fluttering open, but her face was contorted in blinding agony.

Nathaniel felt a warm, terrible dampness soaking through his trousers. He looked down.

His shirt and hands were becoming wet with her blood.

A primal, gut-wrenching sound ripped from Nathaniel's chest. He looked up at the people standing above him—his mother, his father, and the woman they had always intended him to marry.