Sharona loomed over her, panting, her hair disheveled. "You stupid little bitch," she hissed. Her hands found Sylvia’s throat and clamped down. Hard. Sylvia’s gasp turned to a strangled sound, her hands flying up to claw at Sharona’s arms.

Nails dug into flesh, drawing blood, but Sharona didn’t relent.

Sylvia’s lungs burned. Her heart pounded in her ears so loud she could barely hear Sharona’s ragged voice above her. Her hands flailed wildly, searching the rug beside her. Her fingertips brushed the neck of the bourbon bottle that had rolled off the table.

She stretched, vision dimming at the edges, her nails scraping glass until her hand finally closed around it. With one final, desperate surge of strength, she swung.

The thick glass connected with the side of Sharona’s skull with a brutal crack before splintering into shards. Sharona’s body jerked, her grip loosening instantly.

For a second, she looked stunned — her lips parted in disbelief — before her eyes rolled back and she slumped sideways.

Sylvia lay there for a moment, chest heaving, gulping in air. The room spun around her. Her throat burned, her head throbbed.

That was when the front door burst open. The driver rushed in. He’d helped Reese carry Winn down to the car just moments earlier, but something in his gut had told him to come back. "Miss Kane?" he called.

Sylvia blinked up at him from the floor, dazed but conscious. "I’m fine," she croaked, one hand clutching her throat. "Call 911."

She turned to glance at the motionless form beside her, and the sight of the blood smeared across Sharona’s temple made her stomach twist. She swallowed hard. "Then call Maurice Heathcliffe," she added shakily, "I need a lawyer."

The driver’s eyes widened slightly. Sylvia dragged herself to the sofa, the adrenaline fading, replaced by a deep ache in her skull. She sank into the cushions, head tipped back, trembling hands pressed to her knees.

The driver hurried to check on Sharona, crouching beside her and pressing two fingers to her neck. "She’s alive," he said finally, relief laced with concern. Blood had matted Sharona’s hair, trickling down her cheek and staining the edge of her robe.

Sylvia exhaled shakily and wished for a taste of the spilled bourbon.

The driver stood, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911.

When he hung up, he hesitated. Call Maurice Heathcliffe, she had ordered. The right thing, professionally, was to obey her. But Reese was his superior.

He scrolled through his contacts, thumb hovering over Maurice’s name. Then he exhaled slowly and tapped Reese Dalton.

"Sir," he said quietly when Reese picked up. "We’ve got a situation."

In the background, the sirens were already rising — faint at first, then growing louder, slicing through the city’s night. Sylvia sat perfectly still on the couch, her fingers tracing the bruise blooming around her throat.

*****

Ivy adjusted her scarf as she stepped out of the car. Her grandfather, Sam, moved slowly beside her, his cane tapping against the walkway. Despite his insistence that he was "as strong as an ox," Ivy could see the stiffness in his gait.

"Grandpa, please, let’s get you checked first," she said, looping her arm around his.

"Nonsense, princess," Sam grumbled. "Ladies first. You’re the one with a baby causing heartburn."

"And you’re the one who’s been walking like your hip’s made of rusty metal."

"Fair point," he chuckled.

After checking in, Ivy escorted him to the Orthopaedic Department. Sam was immediately distracted by another patient, and within moments, he was deep into a conversation.

"Okay, Grandpa," Ivy said. "I’m going to see my doctor now. Promise me you’ll get that X-ray."

"Fine," he said with a dramatic sigh. "Now go."

At the Maternity Section, Ivy checked in and was ushered into Dr. Anika Lawrence’s consultation room.

"So," the doctor said as she prepared the ultrasound machine, "what seems to be the trouble today?"

Ivy rubbed her chest lightly. "Heartburn."

"That’s completely normal, sweetheart," Dr. Lawrence replied, squeezing gel onto her gloved hand.

She spread the cool gel over Ivy’s abdomen. The screen flickered to life, and within seconds, rhythmic blips of light danced across it. "Well, well, well," she murmured, moving the transducer. "Look who we have here."

Ivy’s eyes widened as a soft, steady thumping filled the room.

"That’s your baby’s heartbeat," the doctor said softly, smiling.

Ivy’s fingers flew to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. "Oh... wow," she whispered, her laughter trembling. "It’s so... soothing."

"Would you like to know the sex?"

"Oh yeah, sure," Ivy said, her heart thudding faster than the sound on the screen.

Dr. Lawrence grinned, tapping a few keys before glancing back at her. "Congratulations. It’s a girl."

A girl. Ivy’s lips trembled into a smile.

"A girl," she whispered.

The hum of the ultrasound machine quieted as the doctor pressed a soft wipe into Ivy’s hand.

Dr. Lawrence turned back to face her. "You have to take it easy. Your pregnancy is quite delicate right now. Especially due to the trauma you suffered a few weeks ago."

Ivy exhaled slowly. Her fingers tightened around the damp wipe, wringing it without realizing. "I didn’t even know I was pregnant then," she murmured. "I was hit in the stomach a couple of times..."

"It’s okay," she said softly, eyes kind. "What matters now is how you take care of yourself moving forward. You’ll need to stay relaxed, keep stress to a minimum, and come in once a month for your checkups. Be religious with your medication, eat well, sleep well. If you follow that, I’m sure in five months, you’ll have a healthy baby in your arms."

Ivy nodded slowly. A girl, she thought again, smiling faintly. My girl.

She sat up straighter, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Thank you, Doctor," she said sincerely.

Dr. Lawrence gave her a warm smile, scribbling a few notes onto Ivy’s medical file before setting it aside. "Of course. Extend my greetings to Mr. Everest, will you?"

"Which one?" she asked.

The doctor laughed. "Uh... both!"