His wife, Elaine — her face pulled tight by surgery and a lifetime of looking down on people — gave a small, crisp clap.

Then another.

Then Victor joined her.

Two obscenely wealthy people, standing in a glittering ballroom, applauding while their eight-months-pregnant daughter-in-law lay bleeding among the ruined presents.

Emboldened, Daniel sneered down at me. “Celeste is carrying the real Ashford heir, you barren trash. A strong bloodline. Not a medical fluke.”

A gasp rippled through the back rows.