a strategy.”
“My baby is why I need proof.”
That was the terrible part. Evan had made himself beloved. He had curated the role perfectly. He brought soup to Lena’s employees when they were sick. He sent flowers to nurses. He remembered birthdays. If Lena left him with only suspicions, he would become the wounded husband of an irrational pregnant heiress. He would say she was paranoid. He would produce the medical note. He would leak the story gently, tastefully, with concern.
And somewhere in the middle of that fog, he would find another way.
Detective Quinn did not like Lena’s plan. Tomas hated it. Dr. Rao nearly refused to participate until Lena placed both hands on her stomach and said, “Then help me survive the thing he’s already planning.”
So they prepared.
Not recklessly. Not like a movie. Carefully, quietly, with professionals who knew every inch between risk and certainty.
Tomas discovered Evan had contacted a private helicopter company under the name of a foundation donor. He had requested a sunrise coastal route and asked whether doors could be removed for photography. The company had refused to remove them completely but allowed one side to be secured open with safety restrictions.
Evan then asked a second question.
Could passengers shift seats for a better photo?
That was enough.
The pilot assigned to the flight was quietly replaced with Captain Isla Romero, a licensed commercial pilot who had worked with law enforcement before. A federal aviation investigator, Daniel Pike, boarded as a silent photographer under Lena’s name. Detective Quinn obtained authorization to monitor the flight from the ground. Tomas arranged a narrow landing zone on a protected beach below the route.
And Lena trained.
For six days, in a private rescue facility outside Tacoma, she practiced emergency canopy deployment from a suspended harness only a few feet above padded floors. She learned how to protect her abdomen, how to pull the release cord, how to bend her knees, how not to fight the wind. The parachute system was not meant for thrill-seeking. It was a compact emergency descent rig adapted for aerial rescue, hidden beneath a loose wool coat and secured with a custom maternity brace.
Every professional involved told her the same thing: the safest option was not to board.
Every woman inside Lena told her the same thing back: if she did not end this now, Evan would never stop.
The morning of the flight, Evan brought her tea.
He stood in the kitchen wearing a charcoal sweater and the expression he used when he wanted her to feel cherished.
“You barely slept,” he said.
Lena wrapped both hands around the mug and inhaled without drinking. Chamomile. Honey. Something faintly bitter beneath it.
“The baby was restless,” she said.
His eyes flicked to her stomach. Not with tenderness. With calculation.
“Maybe today will relax you. No calls. No board members. Just us.”
“That sounds perfect.”
He watched her lift the mug. She let it touch her lips but swallowed nothing.
After he left the room, she poured it into the soil of the rosemary plant by the sink.
Tomas was waiting in the garage, disguised in the uniform of the car service Evan had booked. His jaw tightened when he saw her.
“Last chance,” he murmured as he
