The medical transport’s siren didn't wail; it merely pulsed a low-frequency hum that vibrated through the chassis. Vanessa had been loaded into the ambulance thirty minutes after the chef’s call, claiming extreme abdominal cramping and dizziness.
Marcus was driving. He was pushing the speedometer of the luxury sedan well past the city limits, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned. He hadn't spoken since they left the penthouse.
Chloe was in the back seat. She was monitoring the transport’s vitals on her tablet, which was patched directly into the EMTs' system. Every variable—heart rate, blood pressure, fetal monitor—was within an acceptable, stable, albeit elevated, range. There was no medical emergency. There was only strategic volatility.
They arrived at
