Chapter 3

The footage was safe. Clara heard the words, understood them on a surface level, but the deeper meaning did not land until she saw Vivienne's face. The blonde woman had stopped crying, stopped pretending, stopped even breathing for a moment. She stood against the wall with her gold clutch pressed to her chest, her platinum bob catching the light, her cold gray eyes fixed on Alistair with something that looked like a trapped animal's assessment of its cage.

"You can't do that." Vivienne's voice was high, tight. "That's my— that's not— you have no right to record me without consent."

"This is a hospital." Alistair's tone did not change. "Security cameras are disclosed in the visitor agreement everyone signs at the front desk. Including the patient-adjacent suites, which are monitored for safety purposes at all times."

"I didn't sign anything." Vivienne's denial was automatic, a reflex. "I never signed anything."

"You checked in at the security desk forty minutes ago." Alistair pulled a tablet from his coat, tapping the screen with practiced ease. "You were required to present a valid ID, sign the visitor log, and acknowledge the recording notice on the guest terminal. Your signature is on file. Along with your time of entry, your purpose of visit, and your confirmation that you understood the privacy provisions."

The room had gone very quiet. Julian stood with his phone in his hand, the call still connecting, his face a study in restrained fury. Priscilla Vance had pressed herself against the doorframe, her auburn hair falling across her face, her brown eyes wide and unblinking. And Clara — Clara was still on the marble floor, her hand on her belly, her palm bleeding from the crystal shard, the throb at her temple a constant reminder of how close this had come to ending differently.

"I want a lawyer." Vivienne's voice cracked on the word. "I want— I have rights. You can't just—"

"You have the right to remain silent." Julian's voice cut through her protests as he raised the phone to his ear. "I'd recommend you exercise it."

The wordless minutes that followed felt like hours. Clara watched Julian speak in low, clipped sentences to the police dispatcher, watched Priscilla's hands twist together in the doorway, watched Vivienne's face cycle through every shade of fear and fury that a human face is capable of producing. Alistair stood between the camera and the room, immovable, a gatekeeper holding the line.

The pearl stud was still in Clara's fist. She had not let go of it, had not even thought of letting go of it, that tiny piece of ocean-light that had become a fixed point in a spinning world. She looked down at her closed fingers and realized she was holding it so tightly that her knuckles had gone white around the crystal shard embedded in her palm.