“It’s… a boy,” a nurse panted. Then her relief warped into panic. “Dr. Pierce—maternal hemorrhage. Uterine atony. She’s rupturing. Pressure’s dropping off a cliff.”

A torrent of bright blood cascaded out of me, flooding the floor, painting the world crimson. The monitor shrieked into a flatline alarm. I lay still in the warm lake of my own blood and watched, coldly, as Preston’s spine went rigid.

His hands, soaked in my blood, twitched as he frantically packed gauze, the arrogance draining out of him at last.

“Dr. Pierce, you’re sweating—let me,” Khloe purred, stepping in with gauze as though my resuscitation were her runway. Preston didn’t push her away.

I’m dying, I realized. And as the darkness pulled me under, my mind locked onto one thought. If I survive this, Preston Pierce, I am going to take apart everything you have.

Piece by piece. And I’ll do it the way I do everything—by the book, with clear margins.