Not enough for Rachel to see.
But inside, where no one could photograph it, she felt the delayed bruise of the night before.
The hand on Sienna’s waist.
The kiss.
The applause.
The empty eight minutes.
She breathed through it.
In.
Out.
Her daughter kicked beneath the monitor.
Dr. Morgan’s voice softened. “She’s strong.”
Madison opened her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “She is.”
When she returned to the penthouse, Ana was waiting with soup again.
And a stack of Preston’s clothes folded into black garment bags by the elevator.
Madison paused.
Ana lifted her chin.
“He called the service entrance,” Ana said. “Told me to pack his things.”
“And you did?”
“I packed the ugly things.”
Madison looked at her.
Ana shrugged. “The good suits are still in the closet. You bought them.”
Madison laughed.
It came out unexpectedly.
Small and cracked, but real.
Ana’s eyes softened.
“There she is,” Ana said.
Madison touched the nearest garment bag.
Inside, she saw gym clothes, old loafers, a fleece vest she had always hated, and three monogrammed shirts with collars too stiff for any decent human being.
A perfect exile wardrobe.
“Thank you,” Madison said.
Ana nodded.
Then her expression shifted.
“There is something else.”
Madison went still.
Ana reached into her apron pocket and removed a small envelope.
No stamp.
No return address.
“This was pushed under the service door this morning.”
Rachel stepped forward. “Did you touch it?”
Ana gave her a look. “I am not new.”
She held it by the corner.
Rachel took it with a tissue, opened it carefully, and slid out one photograph.
Madison saw the image and felt the air leave the room.
It was a picture of the nursery.
Taken from inside the penthouse.
The pale green walls.
The empty crib.
The folded onesies.
On the back, written in black marker, were six words.
He isn’t the only one lying.
Madison reached for the kitchen island.
Rachel said her name.
Ana crossed herself.
For three seconds, Madison could not hear anything but the memory of her baby’s heartbeat.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
Check who owns Sienna Hart’s agency before midnight.
Below it was a file attachment.
A video.
Madison stared at the screen.
Outside the windows, Manhattan glittered like nothing terrible had happened.
Inside the apartment, the nursery door stood half-open.
And from somewhere deep inside the home, a floorboard creaked.
Not near the elevator.
Not near the service entrance.
From the hallway leading to the baby’s room.