Amara’s POV
The silence in the sunroom was heavy, thick with the scent of lilies and the cold, sharp edge of a blade. I was back in the chair, my body feeling like it was made of lead. Eleanor Wolfe hadn't moved. She sat there, as elegant and terrifying as an ancient goddess of war, waiting for me to break.
Mr. Harrison stood by the glass door, a silent sentinel in a charcoal suit. He wasn't a man; he was a machine that processed human lives into legal paragraphs.
"The ten minutes are up, Amara," Eleanor said. Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper, which made it ten times more frightening. "The clock has stopped. Now, you tell me. Are you going to be sensible, or are you going to be a martyr for a child that will never know its father's name?"
"I won't kill my baby," I said. My voi
