Thirty-two weeks pregnant, I watched my husband walk into his family’s Christmas party with his mistress on his arm—and the $18,600 diamond necklace he’d secretly bought glittering around her neck.

“Evelyn, are you okay?” Mara asked frantically from the passenger seat, turning to look at my pale, sweaty face.

“I’m having contractions,” I gasped, clutching the leather seat. “The running… it triggered it.”

“We have to get you to a hospital,” Daniel said, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.

“No!” I shouted, fighting through a wave of pain. “If I check into a hospital, Silas will find us in ten minutes. We have the evidence. We have to end this tonight.”

“We are ending it,” Daniel said grimly, steering the car toward the highway. “I just forwarded the entire decrypted drive to the lead investigator at the FBI’s environmental crimes division. But they need Matthias at the scene to tie him directly to the physical demolition explosives.”

“How do we get him to the site?” Mara asked.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. My hands were shaking violently, but my mind was crystal clear.

“I use the only thing he cares about,” I whispered.

I dialed Matthias’s number. He answered on the first ring.

“Evelyn,” Matthias said, his voice a chilling, manufactured calm. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the property, Matthias,” I lied, my voice shaking perfectly. “The industrial tract. I have the original, notarized deed my grandfather left me.”

“Evelyn, don't be stupid,” he warned.

“If you don't call off Silas right now,” I threatened, letting out a genuine gasp as a contraction hit me, “I will burn the original deed right here in the toxic dirt, and you will spend the next five years fighting the estate in probate court while your Hensley investors walk away.”

The line was dead silent. I had hit his absolute vulnerability. Without the original deed to clear the title, his luxury development was dead in the water.