Grant locking himself inside his office while she slept unusually deeply across the living room sofa.
Emma whispered slowly:
“Rachel… I think he drugged me.”
Silence answered briefly.
Then:
“Get somewhere secure immediately.”
Emma looked toward the dark glass entrance where Grant’s black luxury sedan still waited outside beneath streetlights.
Her phone vibrated again.
Unknown number.
She opened the message carefully.
A photograph appeared.
Her bedroom.
Her nightstand.
Her prenatal vitamins.
And beside them, Grant’s expensive black fountain pen with the cap removed revealing a hidden miniature camera lens inside.
Another message followed instantly.
Ask your husband what happened while you were sleeping.
Emma’s blood turned to ice.
Then a second notification arrived.
Vanessa Vale.
I know where the original documents are hidden. If I help you, Grant destroys both of us.
A video file appeared beneath the text.
Emma opened it carefully.
The footage showed her sleeping unconscious on the living room sofa while Grant guided a pen slowly through her limp fingers across legal paperwork spread over the coffee table.
Emma dropped the phone violently.
Because another male voice spoke somewhere off camera.
Not an attorney.
Not a stranger.
A voice she recognized immediately despite believing for five years that the man attached to it was dead.
