Her perfect pregnancy collapsed in seconds when the silicone belly slipped beneath her silk dress. But the real terror began when a quiet boy pointed to the camera above—and exposed a secret far darker than a fake heir.

The crystal shattered against bone and muscle. Vance roared in agony, his hand pulling back from his coat, slick with dark arterial blood.

"Shoot them!" Vance shrieked, collapsing against the velvet chair.

Owen didn't wait. The suppressed Sig Sauer coughed twice with muffled, mechanical precision. The two tactical operators in the bedroom doorway collapsed before their weapons could level, their bodies hitting the hardwood floor with heavy, unceremonious thuds.

Christian moved with blinding speed. He grabbed Julian by the collar, throwing him behind the reinforced marble console of the wet bar, shielding the boy’s body with his own.

Clara scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees, her white dress smeared with Vance’s blood, her eyes wide with hysterical panic. "He was going to kill me!" she screamed, clawing at Christian’s trouser leg. "He told me he had an apartment in Monaco! He told me the plane was waiting! He was going to put me in the ground, Christian!"

"Get her up," Christian barked at Owen.

Owen grabbed Clara by the arm, hauling her to her feet with zero ceremony, his weapon sweeping the suite’s perimeter.

On the carpet, Julian Vance was writhing, clutching his severed femoral artery, his face turning an ashen, translucent gray. Yet his teeth were bared in a bloody, grotesque grimace.

"You think... you think you've stopped it?" Vance gasped, blood bubbling through his lips. "Check the nursery, Christian. Check your precious little sister’s room..."

Christian froze.

The air in his lungs turned to shattered glass. "Victoria."

"She’s at Sterling House," Julian said, his voice trembling for the first time since the ordeal had begun. "Mrs. Gable is with her. The house is locked down."

Vance began to laugh—a wet, rattling sound that choked on his own blood. "The locks... only work... if the danger is outside..."

Christian didn't wait for another word. "Owen, call the estate. Now!"

Owen hit the speed dial on his encrypted sat-phone, setting it to speaker.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then it clicked open. But it wasn't the warm, reassuring voice of Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had served the Sterling family for thirty years.

It was the faint, haunting sound of a music box—the antique silver carousel that Christian had placed beside Victoria’s crib.

And beneath the tinny, mechanical chime, the soft, rhythmic sound of a woman humming a lullaby.

Christian ripped the phone from Owen’s hand. "Who is this?"

The humming stopped.

"Good morning, Christian," a voice whispered—a voice that Christian had not heard since he was twelve years old. A voice that had been buried beneath a marble monument in the family cemetery twenty-four years ago.

It was his mother’s voice.

"You have your father’s eyes, darling," the voice whispered through the receiver. "And your father’s arrogance. Don't worry about little Victoria. She looks so beautiful in the baptism gown I laid out for her. The one with Julian’s name embroidered on the hem."