Then, with shaking hands, she untied the side strings of her hospital gown. She let the fabric slip just far enough down her shoulder to expose the horrific, boot-shaped bruises decorating her ribs to the federal agents.

“He did this to me,” she said. Her voice was no longer a whisper. It was a conviction.

The entire room went dead still.

Beatrice covered her mouth—not in maternal horror at what her son had done, but in cold, terrified calculation of what it would cost her.

Agent Vance’s jaw locked. She nodded sharply to the officer flanking her. “Photograph the injuries immediately. Contact the Special Victims Unit. Add witness intimidation and felony domestic assault to the federal charges.”

“No! Chloe! Don’t do this!” Julian thrashed against the agents as they dragged him backward out of the suite, his designer shoes scuffing the floor he used to walk like a god.