97 “Your daughter isn’t even born yet,” my mother sneered before lifting the pot—never realizing the necklace she wanted would soon expose everything she had done.

Back at our La Jolla home, the remnants of the baby shower had been cleared away, but the heavy shadow of what happened still lingered in the air. Ethan insisted we stay at a private security-monitored guesthouse nearby for a few days, but I needed to come back just once to collect Lily’s coming-home clothes from the nursery.

While Ethan checked the perimeter, I walked into the kitchen. The pale tile floor had been professionally scrubbed, but I could still see the exact spot where I had lain in a pool of blood and water.

A sharp tap at the back patio door made me jump.

I spun around. Standing on the other side of the glass, pressing her face against the pane, was Vivian.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but fear quickly gave way to a cold, calculated resolve. I walked over and slid the glass door open just a few inches, keeping the security chain latched.

"You have some nerve showing your face here," I said coldly.

Vivian’s mask of aristocratic perfection had completely shattered. Her hair was unbrushed, her clothes rumpled. Without her makeup, she looked old, desperate, and hollow.

"Maddie, please," she hissed, glancing frantically toward the driveway. "You have to drop the charges. They're going to arrest Kelsey. They're going to arrest me. Do you know what prison will do to your sister? She’s fragile!"

"Fragile?" I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "You threw boiling milk at my pregnant belly, Vivian. You watched me bleed out on this floor and your first thought was checking if Kelsey secured the jewelry box."

"It was a mistake!" she cried, clawing at the frame. "We can fix this! If you just tell the police it was an accident, I’ll sign over my half of the old family trust—"

"Keep your money," I interrupted smoothly. "And keep your apologies. You didn't just ruin a family relationship, Mother. You signed your own sentence."