My billionaire husband watched his mistress trip my 8-month-pregnant body near the hospital stairs, and lied, "She's unstable. Transfer her to the psych ward". His private medics rushed forward with a stretcher to lock me away and steal my baby. The mistress smirked: "You’re just an incubator, and your time is up." I didn't scream or beg. I simply looked past them as the Hospital Director walked out. They didn't realize their nightmare was about burned to hell...

The reality of Preston’s plot settled over the room like a suffocating shroud. He didn't just want a new life with Savannah. He wanted my child, and he needed me legally incapacitated or dead to ensure total control.

“We can’t just rely on hospital security,” I said, looking at my uncle. “Preston owns judges, politicians, and police chiefs in this city. If we file a standard police report, his legal team will smother it before sunrise.”

“We need someone who isn't afraid of the Hartwell name,” Uncle Nate agreed. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his private cell phone. “I’m calling Marjorie Dane.”

“Marjorie Dane?” I asked. “The corporate litigation attorney?”

“She’s a shark,” Nate said, dialing the number. “And more importantly, she hates Preston Hartwell. He tried to ruin her firm five years ago during a corporate buyout.”

Two hours later, Marjorie Dane arrived in Uncle Nate’s private office. She was a woman in her late fifties, wearing a sharp crimson suit, with silver-streaked hair and eyes that cut like polished diamond. She sat behind the desk, reviewing the high-resolution photographs of my bruised shoulder, the transcript of Jason’s taped confession, and the forged medical chart.

“It’s an aggressive play,” Marjorie said, tapping her gold fountain pen against the desk. “Preston is ruthless, but he’s usually more cautious. Forcing a fake medical transfer in a public hospital means he was operating under a strict deadline.”

She leaned forward, looking directly at me.

“Billionaires don't risk felony kidnapping and attempted murder just because they want to marry their mistress, Emily. What does this baby have that Preston needs so desperately?”

“I don't know,” I replied honestly. “Our prenuptial agreement gives him full control of his estate. I never asked for his money, and my own assets are modest.”

Before Marjorie could answer, my cell phone vibrated on the glass desk.

It was an incoming message from an unknown, encrypted phone number.

I picked up the device. A single image file loaded onto the screen—a grainy, black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired woman standing outside a hospital nursery. The digital timestamp in the corner read: October 14, 1998.