My millionaire husband threw me from a moving Mercedes while I was nine months pregnant, then laughed through the rear window.

Vanessa Crane sat in an interrogation room at the Mecklenburg County Jail, shivering beneath a cheap, stiff orange jumpsuit that smelled of institutional laundry detergent and bleach.

Her golden highlights were matted against her skull. Her artificial eyelashes had long since peeled off, and the designer makeup she had worn to Mercy General had smeared into grotesque black streaks down her hollow cheeks.

Sitting across from her was not Caleb Whitaker.

It was her court-appointed public defender, a tired-looking woman named Karen Phillips, and Special Agent Marcus Reyes.

"Where is Caleb’s private counsel?!" Vanessa shrieked, slamming her manicured hands onto the steel table. "He promised me his corporate attorneys would have me out on bond before lunch! I have a five-thousand-dollar facial appointment at three o'clock! I cannot be in this disgusting place!"

Karen Phillips sighed, flipping open a folder without looking up.

"Miss Crane, Caleb Whitaker’s personal assets have been frozen by federal injunction. Harold Sterling withdrew as his private counsel two hours ago after the SEC named him an unindicted co-conspirator. You don't have a private defense team. You have me. And if you don't lower your voice and listen to Agent Reyes, you will be spending the next twenty-five to thirty years at the North Carolina Correctional Institution for Women in Raleigh."

Vanessa’s voice died in her throat. "T-Twenty-five years? For what?! I didn't drive the car!"

Agent Reyes leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. He slid a stack of eight-by-ten glossy photographs across the metal surface.

They were high-resolution forensic stills pulled from Luis Morales’s dashcam.

The first photo showed Vanessa’s face inside the Mercedes—teeth bared in an ugly, vicious sneer as her hands shoved hard against my pregnant spine.

The second photo showed her fingers releasing the torn fabric of my white maternity dress.

The third photo showed her rolling down her window, laughing, and blowing a kiss toward my body as I hit the gravel shoulder at forty-five miles per hour.

"In the state of North Carolina," Reyes said in a terrifyingly even tone, "acting in concert to commit attempted first-degree murder carries the exact same statutory penalty as pulling the trigger yourself. You didn't just push her, Vanessa. You took her cell phone, smashed it against the dashboard, threw it out the window to prevent her from calling 911, and told her she wasn't built for his world."

"It was Caleb's idea!" Vanessa wailed, her voice cracking into a high-pitched sob. "He told me she had discovered the offshore accounts in the Caymans! He told me that if she gave birth while they were still legally married, the trust protections would kick in and she would take half of Whitaker Global in the divorce!"

"Keep talking," Reyes said, sliding a digital recorder forward.

"He told me that if she had an 'accident' on the highway—if she went into trauma and lost the baby—he could claim she was mentally unstable, file for an emergency annulment, and liquidate the company assets before the SEC caught on!" Vanessa was hysterical now, tears pouring over her lips. "He promised we would take his private jet to Dubai! He bought the tickets two days ago!"

Karen Phillips looked at Agent Reyes. "My client is prepared to enter a full, unreserved guilty plea to attempted voluntary manslaughter and conspiracy, and testify as the state’s star witness against Caleb Whitaker in both state and federal proceedings."

Agent Reyes stood up slowly, picking up his notebook.

"That's a very generous offer, Miss Phillips," Reyes replied coolly. "Unfortunately for your client, we don't need her testimony."

Vanessa blinked through her tears. "What?"

"Ten minutes ago," Reyes said, looking down at Vanessa with open disgust, "the forensic accounting team at Rowan Capital cracked the encrypted server inside Caleb’s penthouse. They found the complete audio recording from the Mercedes's internal dash-recorder."

Vanessa froze. Her eyes went completely wide.

"You see, Caleb didn't trust you either, Vanessa," Reyes continued. "He was recording the entire conversation inside the car to make sure he had leverage over you in case things went south. We have your voice on tape, clear as day, saying: *'Push the bitch out now, Caleb, or I'll tell the board about the Cayman accounts myself.'*"

Vanessa collapsed forward, her forehead hitting the cold steel table with a dull thud.