Chapter 4
Victor came that night.
Not the next day. Not after thinking it over. That same night, barely six hours after my lunch with Natasha.
He didn't knock. He had a key—he owned the apartment, after all. The door opened at eleven p.m. and he stood in the entrance, still in his suit from whatever dinner he'd left early.
His face was terrifying.
In six years, I had seen Victor angry maybe twice. He didn't do rage the way normal men did. He went cold. Controlled. Surgical.
"Sit down," he said.
In my last life, that voice would have made me shrink. I would have apologized before he even told me what I'd done wrong.
Now I stayed exactly where I was—on the couch, legs crossed, Lily's medical file open on the coffee table in front of me.
"You went to Natasha," he said, each word precise. "You threatened to go public."
"I asked for medical coverage for our daughter."
"Don't." He took one step closer. "Don't play this game with me, Sienna. You have no idea what you're starting."
"I'm starting nothing. I'm asking for what Lily deserves."
He laughed. It was short, harsh, and utterly devoid of humor. "You signed away your rights. Both of yours. The contract is clear."
"The contract was signed under duress. I was broke, grieving, and manipulated by my own sister."
His jaw tightened. "That won't hold in court."
"Maybe not," I said. "But the court of public opinion? Victor Hale, billionaire CEO, hides a secret wife and an unacknowledged daughter while parading her sister as his partner? That's tabloid gold."
He stared at me. For the first time since I'd known him, I saw something behind his eyes that looked like reassessment.
Like he was seeing me—actually seeing me—for the first time.
"What happened to you?" he murmured.
*I died,* I thought. *You let me die.*
---
"You're making a mistake," he said finally, his voice dropping dangerously low. "If you think I'll be pressured—"
"I don't think you'll be pressured. I think you'll be smart." I stood and faced him. "Three million in trust for Lily. Full medical coverage added by Friday. That's it. That's all I'm asking."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then by Monday, every newspaper in the city will have documents proving your secret marriage and hidden child."
"I'll deny it."
"You can try. But the hospital intake form has your name, your signature, and your social security number. You want to explain that away on live television?"
A vein pulsed in his temple. He stepped closer, towering over me.
"You think you're clever," he whispered. "But you're forgetting something. I made you. Everything you have—this apartment, the food your daughter eats, the clothes on your back—it all comes from me. I can take it all away tonight."
"Then do it," I said. I didn't blink. "Throw us on the street. See how fast I find a reporter."
Something shifted in his face. He hadn't expected defiance. He'd expected tears. Begging. The old Sienna, crumbling under pressure.
That woman was dead. She bled out on a bathroom floor in a life that hadn't happened yet.
"One week," I repeated. "Medical coverage. Trust fund. Then we go back to our arrangement, and nobody has to know a thing."
He stared at me for a very long time.
Then he turned and walked out without a word. The door closed softly behind him—which scared me more than if he'd slammed it.
Silence.
I stood in the empty apartment, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
Then I moved. Fast.
I pulled out the burner phone I'd bought that morning and typed a message to the number I'd spent all afternoon finding.
*Mr. Cross. My name is Sienna Ward. I have information about Victor Hale that I believe would interest you. Can we meet?*
I hit send.
Forty seconds later, a reply came.
*Tomorrow. 9 AM. My office.*
I exhaled.
The game had officially begun. And I had just contacted the one man in this city that Victor Hale was afraid of.
Not the next day. Not after thinking it over. That same night, barely six hours after my lunch with Natasha.
He didn't knock. He had a key—he owned the apartment, after all. The door opened at eleven p.m. and he stood in the entrance, still in his suit from whatever dinner he'd left early.
His face was terrifying.
In six years, I had seen Victor angry maybe twice. He didn't do rage the way normal men did. He went cold. Controlled. Surgical.
"Sit down," he said.
In my last life, that voice would have made me shrink. I would have apologized before he even told me what I'd done wrong.
Now I stayed exactly where I was—on the couch, legs crossed, Lily's medical file open on the coffee table in front of me.
"You went to Natasha," he said, each word precise. "You threatened to go public."
"I asked for medical coverage for our daughter."
"Don't." He took one step closer. "Don't play this game with me, Sienna. You have no idea what you're starting."
"I'm starting nothing. I'm asking for what Lily deserves."
He laughed. It was short, harsh, and utterly devoid of humor. "You signed away your rights. Both of yours. The contract is clear."
"The contract was signed under duress. I was broke, grieving, and manipulated by my own sister."
His jaw tightened. "That won't hold in court."
"Maybe not," I said. "But the court of public opinion? Victor Hale, billionaire CEO, hides a secret wife and an unacknowledged daughter while parading her sister as his partner? That's tabloid gold."
He stared at me. For the first time since I'd known him, I saw something behind his eyes that looked like reassessment.
Like he was seeing me—actually seeing me—for the first time.
"What happened to you?" he murmured.
*I died,* I thought. *You let me die.*
---
"You're making a mistake," he said finally, his voice dropping dangerously low. "If you think I'll be pressured—"
"I don't think you'll be pressured. I think you'll be smart." I stood and faced him. "Three million in trust for Lily. Full medical coverage added by Friday. That's it. That's all I'm asking."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then by Monday, every newspaper in the city will have documents proving your secret marriage and hidden child."
"I'll deny it."
"You can try. But the hospital intake form has your name, your signature, and your social security number. You want to explain that away on live television?"
A vein pulsed in his temple. He stepped closer, towering over me.
"You think you're clever," he whispered. "But you're forgetting something. I made you. Everything you have—this apartment, the food your daughter eats, the clothes on your back—it all comes from me. I can take it all away tonight."
"Then do it," I said. I didn't blink. "Throw us on the street. See how fast I find a reporter."
Something shifted in his face. He hadn't expected defiance. He'd expected tears. Begging. The old Sienna, crumbling under pressure.
That woman was dead. She bled out on a bathroom floor in a life that hadn't happened yet.
"One week," I repeated. "Medical coverage. Trust fund. Then we go back to our arrangement, and nobody has to know a thing."
He stared at me for a very long time.
Then he turned and walked out without a word. The door closed softly behind him—which scared me more than if he'd slammed it.
Silence.
I stood in the empty apartment, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
Then I moved. Fast.
I pulled out the burner phone I'd bought that morning and typed a message to the number I'd spent all afternoon finding.
*Mr. Cross. My name is Sienna Ward. I have information about Victor Hale that I believe would interest you. Can we meet?*
I hit send.
Forty seconds later, a reply came.
*Tomorrow. 9 AM. My office.*
I exhaled.
The game had officially begun. And I had just contacted the one man in this city that Victor Hale was afraid of.