My husband—the most feared Mafia boss in Philadelphia—left me alone in labor during the worst storm of the year. At 3:07 a.m., after hours of unanswered calls, another woman finally picked up his phone and said, “Your dramatic labor situation isn’t his responsibility tonight.” Minutes later, while I was fighting to bring his daughter into the world, a stranger walked into my hospital room and changed everything.

Catherine stood in the small, dim hallway of her sister’s row home, listening to Amber’s voice through the speaker.

"Is that supposed to scare me, Amber?" Catherine asked quietly.

A light laugh came through the phone. "It’s not meant to scare you, Catherine. It’s meant to educate you. You have no money, no security detail, and no influence in this city. Michael gave you eleven years of luxury, and you threw it away over a missed phone call."

"I threw it away because my husband chose his mistress over his daughter's birth," Catherine replied, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp tone.

"Mistress?" Amber laughed again, higher this time. "Catherine, you really are naive, aren't you? Michael doesn't love me. He doesn't love you either. He loves his empire. And right now, you are a liability to that empire."

"What do you mean?" Catherine’s fingers tightened around her phone.

"Your little separation filing... if it goes public, it opens up his financial records to the federal task force that’s been watching his shipping firm for six months," Amber explained, her tone dropping into a icy threat. "Michael can't afford a messy divorce right now. So if you don't bring that baby back to Chestnut Hill by tomorrow morning, he’s going to make sure you never see a single cent—or your sister’s house—again."

The line went dead.

Catherine slowly lowered the phone. Her hands were cold, but inside her chest, a quiet, fierce fire began to burn.

She looked down at Claire, who was sleeping peacefully in her carrier on the hallway rug.

"He thinks he can starve us out," Rachel said, stepping into the hallway, having overheard the entire conversation. "Catherine, what are we going to do? My bank account won't last three months if he blocks your trust."

Catherine walked into the small kitchen, setting her phone on the laminate counter.

"He thinks I’m the same girl he married eleven years ago," Catherine said softly, turning to face her sister. "He thinks I’m going to cry, panic, and come crawling back to his mansion for an allowance."