The clock on the bedside table glowed a cold, neon blue: 3:14 AM. Fiona stared at it, her eyes gritty from exhaustion, yet her mind was racing at a hundred miles per hour. Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the peaceful face of the baby she hoped for; she saw the sharp, predatory profile of Martin Voss.
Her mother's words uncompromising mandate—felt like a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. *Tell the father.* It sounded so simple, so morally upright.
Fiona rolled onto her side, clutching a pillow to her stomach. She began to think about the "Voss Wealth." It wasn't just money; it was a gravity well. She had seen how it worked for years. To the world, Martin was a visionary, a man who brought "luxury to the masses." But inside the house, he was a curator of people.
