My husband’s mistress pushed me down twenty-two marble stairs while I was eight months pregnant, then leaned over the railing and whispered, "Oops."

The video played on Harper’s small screen, its clear audio cutting through the sterile silence of the hospital room like a freshly sharpened blade.

On the screen, the second-floor landing of Ashford Manor was rendered in crisp high definition. The timestamp in the top-right corner read 11:42 AM. The camera, tucked discreetly behind a wooden teddy bear on the nursery bookshelf, had an unobstructed view through the open double doors.

Meredith was visible first, her eight-month pregnant silhouette moving slowly toward the linen closet. She was wearing a soft cream sweater, her hands resting protectively over her swollen belly.

Then, out of the shadows of the hallway, Sloan stepped forward. She moved with predatory stealth, her heels quiet against the hallway runner until she stepped onto the bare marble of the top landing.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from the bottom of the grand staircase—unmistakably Preston’s, amplified by the high ceilings of the foyer.

"Do it now, Sloan. Before the housekeeper comes back out of the pantry. We don't have all day."

On the screen, Sloan didn't hesitate. A chilling, serene smile spread across her face. She reached out with both hands and shoved Meredith directly between her shoulder blades.

The audio captured the terrifying sound of Meredith’s gasp, the heavy thud of her body tumbling down twenty-two marble steps, and the sickening crack of bone as her wrist hit the bottom wrought-iron baluster.

Then came the silence.

Sloan leaned gracefully over the iron railing, her silk dress swaying softly. "Oops," she whispered into the drop.

In the hospital room, the video looped back to the beginning.

Officer Vance, the police officer standing at the foot of the bed, looked up from the screen. His jaw was set in a hard, grim line. He placed his hand on the holster at his belt and looked directly at Preston.

"Mr. Ashford, step away from the bed," Officer Vance commanded, his tone dropping an octave. "And Miss Whitmore, put your hands behind your back."

"This is ridiculous!" Preston snapped, his suave composure finally cracking into panicked fury. "That video is fabricated! It’s AI! My wife is paranoid and hysterical, and her friend is a computer tech—they forged it to ruin my reputation before the board meeting tomorrow!"

"Save it for your lawyer, sir," Officer Vance said. He drew his radio. "Dispatch, I need two backup units at St. Jude’s Hospital, third floor, Room 312. I have two suspects in custody for attempted murder and conspiracy."

Sloan gasped, backing away toward the window, her knuckles white as she squeezed Preston’s cashmere coat—Meredith’s coat—around her shoulders. "Preston, do something! You promised me she wouldn't be an issue! You promised me the estate!"

"Shut up, Sloan!" Preston roared, turning on her with venom. "Shut your mouth!"

"Both of you, quiet!" Officer Vance barked, stepping between them and drawing his handcuffs.

Outside the room, the door pushed open wider. Lucia, the housekeeper, stepped into the doorway. Tears were streaming down her weathered cheeks, but the trembling in her hands had stopped. She reached up and unbuttoned the cuff of her uniform sleeve, pulling it back to reveal a dark, purple bruise shaped like a man's fingers.

"He threatened my family, Officer," Lucia said, her voice shaking but firm. "He told me if I said a word about seeing Miss Sloan in the house, he would call immigration on my son. He grabbed me when I tried to run to the phone."

Preston’s eyes darted frantically around the room like a trapped animal. The polished, untouchable heir to the Ashford Investment Fund was unspooling in seconds.

Within ten minutes, backup arrived. The quiet hospital hallway echoed with the harsh sound of metal handcuffs clicking into place. Sloan sobbed uncontrollably as she was led away, her polished glamour dissolving into red-faced hysteria. Preston remained silent, glaring at Meredith with a terrifying, cold hatred as the officers escorted him out.

When the room finally fell quiet, Harper collapsed into the chair beside Meredith’s bed, releasing a breath she seemed to have been holding for hours.

"We got them," Harper whispered, squeezing Meredith’s good hand. "Mere, we got them."

Meredith looked down at her heavy wrist cast, then at the heart monitor tracking her baby’s steady, reassuring rhythm: thump-thump, thump-thump.

"No," Meredith said softly, her voice steady despite the agony in her shoulder. "This is just the beginning. Preston will be out on bail by midnight. He has millions, Harper. He has the entire board of Ashford Investments in his pocket."