I’ll file the asset-freeze petitions before sunrise. The documents will be on your nightstand by dawn.”

I dropped the phone. Enduring the burn of my abdominal sutures, I reached into the hidden pocket of my hospital bag and drew out a small digital recorder.

In the ER, carrying one to protect against combative patients was second nature. When they’d rolled me into the delivery room, it had been tucked into my gown.

I hit play.

“Kill the epidural pump. Restrain her extremities. We’re proceeding with a forced extraction… If she codes, the liability is entirely mine. Hold her down.”

Preston’s commands, threaded through the alarms of my dying heart, filled the quiet room. It sounded like a eulogy for the woman who’d spent ten years editing his research papers at 2 a.m., who’d traded her own ambitions to build his pedestal.