The interrogation room in the estate's lower levels was a study in controlled brutality.
No torture devices. No crude implements of pain. Just white walls, surgical lighting, and the kind of silence that made men break without a single hand being laid on them. Alexander had designed it himself—psychological warfare distilled to its purest form.
Marcus knelt in the center, hands zip-tied behind his back, his face already bruised from Julian's less refined approach to questioning. Blood trickled from his split lip, dripping onto the pristine white floor in scarlet drops that reminded Emily of cherry blossoms falling.
She shouldn't be here. Dr. Yun would be horrified—stress hormones, elevated blood pressure, potential harm to the baby. But Alexander had insisted, his hand possessive on her lower back as he'd guided her down the stairs, and Emily had discovered something dark and terrible about herself in the eighteen weeks since their child had begun growing inside her.
