Chapter 7

The storm arrived the way storms often do — not with a single thunderclap, but with a slow press of clouds that darkened the morning light and made everything heavier. By noon, the news channels were running the story with all the gravity of a national crisis: "Society Scion Charged in Hospital Attack," "Vivienne Ashford Arrested: Exclusive Footage Reveals Truth Behind Gala 'Altercation.'" The comments sections were already filling with speculation, defense, outrage, and the kind of moral certainty that only people who were not involved could manage.

Clara had been moved to a private room on the third floor, away from the bustle of the emergency department, and Julian had taken over the small sofa by the window with the air of a man settling in for a long siege. Alistair came and went, his tablet always in his hand, his phone always at his ear. And through it all, the pearl stud stayed in Clara's palm, a small piece of constancy in a world that had turned upside down.

"They've posted bail." Alistair's voice was flat as he walked into the room, his phone still in his hand. "A judge set it at two million, and her family had the cash wired before the ink was dry."

Clara felt the news land like a stone in her stomach. "She's out."

"She's out." Alistair's jaw tightened. "With conditions — she's surrendered her passport, she's under house arrest at the Ashford estate, and she's not allowed to contact you or Julian directly or indirectly. But she's out."

Julian's hands had clenched into fists at his sides. "She's a threat. The woman attacked my pregnant wife in a hospital suite. She should be sitting in a cell, not being served tea by her family's staff."

"The system doesn't always work the way we want it to." Alistair's voice carried a weight of old frustration. "But the conditions are real. She can't come near you. She can't contact you. If she does, she goes back in custody and the bail is revoked."

"That's not enough." Julian's voice was tight. "That's not nearly enough."