The billionaire came home early—and froze when he heard his nearly mute son whisper one sentence no one was supposed to know.

Julian didn't sleep.

By 3:00 AM, his chief of security, Marcus Cole—a former Mossad operative who owed Julian his life—stood inside the study. The room smelled of dark roast coffee and tension so thick it felt physical.

"Victoria is in the master bedroom, Boss," Marcus reported quietly. "She made three attempts to use her cell phone, but the signal jammer in the hallway is holding. She tried to bribe the guard at the door ten minutes ago."

"Keep her contained," Julian ordered, staring at the laptop screen on his desk.

The flash drive Maya provided had played Clara’s final words forty times over the last three hours. Hearing Clara’s weak, dying voice—interrupted by the harsh, cold commands of Victoria—had shattered whatever was left of Julian’s restraint.

"What are your orders regarding Senator Montgomery?" Marcus asked.

"Not yet," Julian said, his eyes cold and dangerous. "If we hit the Senator now, his legal team will lock up the medical records and scrub the hospital servers before sunrise. We need physical proof from St. Jude’s."

Julian turned to Maya, who was sitting quietly on the sofa, watching him with watchful hazel eyes.

"You worked for three days in my home without revealing yourself," Julian said. "Why today?"

"Because Leo spoke," Maya said softly. "For two days, I only hummed Clara’s lullaby while cleaning the nursery. The boys began following me around the apartment like little shadows. Today, Victoria saw them holding my hand. She slapped Leo’s wrist and threw his drawing pad across the room. I stepped between them. That’s when you walked in."

Julian closed his eyes, a wave of profound guilt washing over him. He had spent four years immersed in corporate acquisitions, building a multi-billion-dollar empire, while his sons were being raised by the monster who had murdered their birth mother.

"Marcus," Julian said, opening his eyes. "Get the car. We’re going to St. Jude’s."

"Now, sir?"

"Dr. Arthur Vance, the chief of obstetrics who signed Clara’s death certificate, still works the night shift in the private wing," Julian said, pulling a dark coat over his shoulders. "He has twenty minutes to tell me where Clara’s body was taken, or I will tear that hospital down brick by brick."

"What about Victoria?" Maya asked, standing up.