The sound of her tooth shattering was nothing compared to the sound that came next—her father’s voice at the door.

The knocking at the door was heavy, authoritative. Not a neighborly tap. A firm, rhythmic rapping that shook the frame.

"Rebecca? Open up, it's your father."

Jonathan Sterling. Billionaire shipping magnate, cold as steel, and a man who hadn't spoken to his daughter in four years—not since she walked out of his estate to marry a man he called a penniless parasite.

Trevor froze. The color drained from his flushed face, replaced by a sickly, ashen gray. All the bluster vanished in an instant.

"Don't you dare," Trevor hissed, pointing a trembling finger at her. "You tell him you tripped. You fell over the damn toys. If you ruin my career, I swear to God..."

Three seconds.

One second: She looked down at Emma, whose tears were soaking into her collar. She felt the heavy, rhythmic thud of her unborn child kicking against her palm.

Two seconds: She touched the ragged gap where her tooth used to be, tasting the copper-sweet tang of her own blood. She remembered every insult, every bruised rib she had hidden under baggy sweaters, every night she cried herself to sleep while Trevor snored beside her.

Three seconds: Rebecca lifted her chin.

She didn't crawl toward the door. She pushed herself up, holding Emma tight against her hip, ignoring the dizzy wave of nausea, and walked straight to the deadbolt.

She turned the lock.

Jonathan Sterling stood on the porch in a bespoke charcoal overcoat, his silver hair immaculate, his sharp blue eyes scanning the entryway. But the moment the door swung open and he saw his daughter—the blood-soaked shirt, the swollen lip, the missing tooth, and the terror in her eyes—the billionaire’s facade cracked.

"Who did this?" Jonathan’s voice dropped an octave, cutting through the cool night air like a razor.