At nine months pregnant, Isabella Monroe believed her marriage was already frayed enough to survive anything. She had abandoned her marketing career three years earlier to move to her husband Julian Monroe’s sprawling estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Julian was respected, wealthy, untouchable—or so everyone said. Isabella trusted him because she had been taught that loyalty was love.
The illusion shattered at 3:12 a.m. on a frigid February night.
Isabella had woken up alone in her room, experiencing faint but unfamiliar contractions, when she noticed Julian’s car was gone. He had claimed a late meeting with contractors overseeing renovations on a downtown property. Something drew her out—an instinct sharpened by motherhood. She drove.
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