Chapter 6

Forty-eight hours earlier, Eleanor Moretti made a single phone call that would change everything.

She sat in her private study, late-evening lamplight gilding the edges of polished mahogany and crystal decanters. Medical reports lay neatly arranged before her, annotated in careful script. Pregnancy confirmed. Genetic testing completed. Timelines aligned.

Perfect.

She dialed a number from memory.

“Dr. Morrison speaking.”

“Dr. Morrison,” Eleanor said smoothly. “I need you to review Alexandra Wolfe’s genetic testing file.”

A pause. “Mrs. Moretti, I can’t access patient records without authorization—”

“You can. You will. Or have you forgotten who funded your daughter’s residency at Johns Hopkins?”

Silence followed. Heavy. Cornered.

“What… exactly do you need?” he asked at last.

“There’s an inconsistency in her cardiac gene sequencing. Flag it. Request she come in for immediate follow-up.”

“But if there’s no actual inconsistency—”

“There will be by the time you call her.”

Her voice cooled to steel.

“Create urgency. Make her believe the fetal risk is higher than originally calculated. Fear motivates compliance, Doctor.”

“This is unethical.”

“This is family protection.” She lifted her glass of scotch. “You’ll make the call.”

She ended the conversation and opened the leather folder beside her.

Project Heartline.

Custody arrangements. Medical directives. Contingency guardianship. Funeral preferences.

All prepared.

“If Alexandra cannot survive this pregnancy,” Eleanor murmured, “the baby still will.”

Now, forty-eight hours later…

Sunlight spilled across Alexandra’s bedroom in pale gold bands.

She woke slowly, heavy with exhaustion that sleep never seemed to fix. For a moment, she forgot everything—until the dull weight in her chest reminded her.

Then she noticed the blinking red notification light on her phone.

One voicemail.

Mount Sinai Hospital.

Her stomach dropped before she even listened.

“Ms. Wolfe, this is Dr. Morrison from Mount Sinai Genetics. We need you to come in immediately. There’s something we need to discuss about your genetic results. Please call us back as soon as possible.”

Her fingers went cold.

Immediately.

Dominic appeared in the doorway with two mugs. He took one look at her face and set them down without a word.

“What is it?”

She handed him the phone.

He listened, jaw tightening. “When did this come?”

“This morning.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She should have argued.

She didn’t.

The drive to the hospital passed in strained silence. Traffic crawled, horns blaring faintly through the insulated car. Alex stared out the window, hand resting protectively over her stomach.

“It could be nothing,” Dominic said.

She didn’t look at him. “They don’t say ‘immediately’ for nothing.”

Her phone buzzed against her thigh.

She almost ignored it. Then she saw the message preview.

Unknown number.

She opened it, stomach sinking.

Heard you're having medical troubles. Shame. ThorneGen's offer still stands. – JT

Julian Thorne.

Dominic saw her face. "What is it?"

She handed him the phone without a word.

His jaw went rigid. "He's circling.”

Dominic read it and went rigid. “He’s circling.”

“He can circle,” Alex said, though dread slid through her veins. “WolfeTech isn’t for sale.”

Not yet.

Dr. Morrison’s office smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. He looked younger than she expected—mid-forties, maybe, with the careful exhaustion of someone who'd been awake too long. Sweat shone at his temples despite the office's air conditioning.

Not a villain, Alex realized. A coward.

“Thank you for coming in so quickly,” he said.

“Your voicemail said immediately,” Alex replied. “What’s wrong?”

He glanced at his tablet. Hesitated.

“There’s been… an irregularity in your genetic sequencing results.”

The word hung in the air like a verdict.

“What kind?” Dominic asked sharply.

“The long QT variant you carry shows a secondary mutation we initially missed.”

Alex gripped the chair arm. “What does that mean?”

“It means fetal transmission risk may be higher than we calculated.”

“How much higher?”

“Seventy-five percent.”

The number slammed into her.

Seventy-five.

“And for me?”

“Your personal risk remains elevated. But the fetal risk is our primary concern.”

She could barely hear him over the roar in her ears.

“You’re saying there’s a seventy-five percent chance my baby will have this condition?”

“We recommend amniocentesis at fifteen weeks to confirm—”

“No.”

Her voice cut through the room like glass.

“That carries miscarriage risk.”

“Very small—”

“I don’t care. You are not putting my baby at risk to confirm a probability.”

Morrison glanced at Dominic, as if expecting him to intervene.

Dominic’s voice turned ice. “You heard her.”

They left without another word.

Alex made it halfway down the corridor before her legs gave out. She dropped onto a bench, breath coming in shallow bursts.

“Seventy-five percent,” she whispered.

Dominic sat beside her. “We don’t know anything yet.”

“If the baby has it,” she said hollowly, “that’s a death sentence.”

“It’s not. Not anymore.”

“Your research is illegal and experimental,” she snapped. “That’s not comfort.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with fear.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted quietly. “Every second.”

She stared at him.

“I watch you sleep,” he said. “I count your breaths. I listen for your heart. I’m barely holding it together.”

Her anger cracked.

“I need you,” she whispered. “I hate that I need you. But I do.”

He pulled her into his arms, and for a moment the world narrowed to the space between their heartbeats.

Back at the apartment, Alex collapsed onto the couch. Her phone rang almost immediately.

“Sarah?” she answered.

“Alex, I just spoke to Dr. Morrison,” Sarah said. “He mentioned an irregularity in your results.”

“There was. Seventy-five percent transmission risk.”

Silence.

“Alex… I reviewed your original genetic panel. There was no secondary mutation.”

Her mind went blank.

“What?”

“I’m looking at your file right now. Fifty percent. Standard type two. No irregularity.”

The room tilted again.

“Then why would he—”

“I don’t know. But something’s wrong.”

Alex ended the call slowly.

Dominic watched her. “What did she say?”

“There’s no mutation,” Alex said. “Morrison lied.”

Understanding dawned in the same instant.

“Eleanor,” she breathed.

Dominic’s face hardened.

Across the city, Eleanor ended a call with Dr. Morrison.

“She knows,” he said nervously.

“Then we move to phase two,” Eleanor replied calmly.

She dialed another number.

“Julian,” she said when he answered. “It’s time.”

That evening, Marcus spread files across Alex’s dining table.

Payments to Dr. Morrison. Emails arranging the elevator blackout. Calls between Eleanor and Julian Thorne.

“She’s been planning this since before the gala,” Marcus said. "And Leo helped her," Alex said bitterly. "Again.”

Alex’s throat tightened as she read the final file.

Project Heartline.

Funeral plans.

Custody transfer.

Prepared before she was even pregnant.

“She planned my death,” Alex whispered.

Dominic’s voice turned lethal. “She’s done.”

Her phone buzzed.

Emergency board meeting. Tomorrow. Nine a.m.

Requested by Eleanor Moretti, acting on behalf of shareholder in

terests, regarding CEO fitness for duty.

Alex’s blood ran cold.

“She’s trying to remove me,” she said.

Dominic pulled her close. “We’ll fight.”

“By morning?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

Across town, Eleanor lifted her glass.

“Checkmate,” she whispered.