My fingers found the gun at his waist before he even realized I was conscious.
The cold metal felt like freedom.
Crack.
I slammed the butt of the pistol into his temple. He dropped. Hard. His keycard was in my hands before his body hit the ground.
I ran.
Not fast. My body was weak, but rage made me sharp. Silent. I knew this house. Every inch. Every creak. I slipped into Reagan’s office.
The bastard hadn’t changed a thing.
His desk sat like a throne, untouched by morality or conscience.
I opened the drawer, fingers trembling—and I planted two things inside:
My wedding ring. Scratched. Bent. Still warm from my skin.
The sonogram. Black and white and unforgiving.
Three little shapes. Three reasons he’d never sleep again.
But it wasn’t just a goodbye. It was a warning. A prophecy. Because I knew the truth. But I’d flipped the game. I left that sonogram not to break him.
Not yet. I left it to haunt him.
To remind him that his future—the one he tried to steal—was still inside me. Untouchable.
Because I wasn’t running to escape. I was running to be reborn. And when I returned, I wouldn’t be his wife. I’d be the huntress.
“You built an empire with my blood. I’ll make you drown in it.”