Anna, seizing the opening, took a step forward. "Baby, listen to your father," she said softly. "You don’t want to do this."

Sylvia smiled, a sad, crooked curve of her lips. She’d finally realized what everyone in the Kane family learned too late—Tom Kane didn’t give a damn about anyone’s heartbreak unless it could be weaponized. Still, even monsters sometimes spoke the truth, and he was right about one thing: Winn would need her.

Her fingers trembled as she lowered the gun, its metallic weight leaving an imprint against her skin as she placed it carefully on the desk.

She straightened, brushing away a tear with the back of her hand. "You both are dead to me."

Anna gasped. "Sylvia, darling—"

But Sylvia was already walking away.

Tom exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. His daughter’s words stung, but not enough to pierce through the steel of his ego.

Anna turned on him, fury and confusion tangled in her face. "Tom, what the hell is going on? I don’t understand this... this thing between you and Sylvia—especially now. The girl’s barely holding it together!"

He turned his cold eyes on her. "Go to your room, Anna. I don’t have time for this."

He strode to the desk, picked up the gun, and examined it. "She’s emotional," he muttered to himself, slipping the weapon back into the drawer. "She’ll come around."

He wasn’t done.

*****

Evans hadn’t slept in days—his eyes were bloodshot, his shirt rumpled, his beard a few days past respectable.

He sat on the sofa, elbows on his knees, scrolling through the latest headlines on his phone. "Runaway Bride: Ivy vanishes hours before vows." "Mystery surrounds Kane family’s wedding disaster." Every headline was another stab to the chest.

His niece didn’t deserve any of this. The press had turned Ivy’s name into a circus, and he couldn’t even defend her without blowing the lid off things that should never see daylight.

A lot had happened, and Ivy was lucky—painfully, impossibly lucky—to still be breathing. The doctors said the trauma alone should’ve shut her body down, but somehow, the stubborn rhythm of her heartbeat refused to stop. Mike had found her just in time—seconds, maybe minutes, before she would have slipped away for good.

Thursday night had been chaos. Everything that happened in between was a blur of shouting, guilt, and the metallic tang of fear.

When he found Mary, he’d barely recognized her. She looked smaller somehow, fragile in that hospital bed. But then, there’d been that folded note resting beside her pillow.

Mary’s doctor had explained that a new surgery could reverse much of the effect caused by her stroke years ago. "There’s risk," the doctor had said softly, "but there’s hope too."

Evans had nodded absently. "Whatever it takes," he murmured. His sister deserved to smile again. His niece deserved to live. And he... he needed everything to be perfect again.

Well, almost perfect.

At first, Evans had convinced himself Ivy was simply overwhelmed. Happens to brides, right? Mike tracked her credit card. A plane ticket to Newark, and then—oddly—a motel booking under an alias.

Mike had found her—but the image would haunt him forever.

He’d video called Evans only after he’d covered Ivy’s naked body with his coat.

"Boss," he’d said. "She’s alive. Barely. But she’s alive."

Five days later, Ivy was still unconscious. Her skin was a map of bruises, her pulse thin but persistent. Evans had been by her bedside, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers twitched sometimes, as if trying to reach him.

He’d whispered things to her when the nurses weren’t around—things he never thought he’d say aloud. Regrets, apologies.

And beneath it all, fury burned.

The attack. Someone had staged it all, every last detail, to destroy Ivy and keep her from marrying Winn.

"Someone wanted her gone," Evans muttered. "And they made damn sure the world believed she walked out on her own."

The machines beeped steadily, indifferent.

So, to protect her, Evans let the illusion sit.

The headlines painted her as the beauty who’d ditched her billionaire fiancé at the altar. It was easier that way. It kept questions away, kept predators disinterested, and most importantly, kept her safe. Let them gossip, he thought. Let them call her heartless. The truth was far darker, and the fewer people who knew it, the better.

He had his family back—his sister alive, his niece breathing—and for now, that was all that mattered.

But beneath that fragile relief was a ticking complication—a truth that would soon tear through the illusion. He didn’t know how long he could hide it, how long he could pretend everything was fine.

The door creaked open.

Doctor Stanton stepped in. Two nurses followed—one with a tablet, the other pushing a stainless-steel trolley loaded with syringes and instruments.

"Mr. Everest," Stanton greeted.

"Morning, Doc." Evans didn’t move from his chair—the same chair he’d practically lived in for the past five days.

Dr. Stanton glanced at the monitors, flipping through Ivy’s chart. "We need to pull Miss Morales out of the coma now," he said, matter-of-factly. "She should be strong enough to be alert."

Evans looked up sharply, fingers tightening around the armrest. "Are you sure about that?" The thought of her waking up terrified him as much as it relieved him. What if she remembered? What if she didn’t? What if the first thing she saw was his face and she panicked?

The doctor nodded. "Quite sure. Her vitals are stabilizing. Her wounds are closing nicely. But—" he paused, glancing briefly at Evans "—for the sake of the baby, she needs to be awake. The stress of prolonged sedation isn’t ideal."

"Okay," he said quietly.

The baby. Ivy’s baby. Winn’s baby.

That was the complication. He wanted to keep her safe, to keep her far from the Kanes and their poison. But a child changed the stakes.

He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as Dr. Stanton prepared the sedative reversal. "You’re sure she won’t be in pain?"