“Mr. Vance,” Dr. Sterling interrupted, stepping back from the bed. His face was damp with perspiration, but his posture had relaxed slightly. “His airway is stabilizing. The humidified high-flow is working; the oxygen saturation is back up to ninety-three. We’re pushing the antipyretic directly through the central line. The fever should start breaking within forty-five minutes.”

Mariana let out a ragged sob, her knees giving out completely.

Daniel caught her before she hit the floor, lifting her easily into his arms and pulling her against his chest. He held her there, letting her cry into the rough cotton of his shirt, while the sound of Mateo’s breathing settled into a soft, steady rhythm.

Then, Mariana’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the ringtone blared through the PICU—an obnoxious, brassy chime that Mariana had set specifically for her mother years ago.

Daniel didn’t release his hold on Mariana. With one arm supporting her weight, he reached over with the other and answered the call, pressing the speaker button.

Victoria’s voice didn’t just come through the speaker; it exploded into the room like shrapnel.

“Mariana! What on earth have you done?!” Victoria shrieked. The background noise of the St. Regis ballroom—the string quartet, the murmur of the city’s self-proclaimed elite—had completely vanished. In its place was the echo of shouting, the harsh clatter of dropped trays, and the voice of a man demanding that the ballroom be cleared immediately.

“The catering staff is packing up the champagne!” Victoria screamed, her voice bordering on complete hysteria. “The hotel manager just came into the private suite with six armed security guards and told us the corporate card was revoked! They are cutting the power to the stage! Fernanda is in tears! Her birthday cake hasn’t even been cut yet!”

Mariana lifted her head from Daniel’s chest, her eyes wide, staring at the glowing screen.

“Mom…” Mariana whispered.

“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me, you miserable little ingrate!” Victoria howled. “Did you call the bank? Did you dispute the deposit I had you put down on your card last week? I know you did! You’re jealous! You’ve always been jealous of your sister! You couldn’t stand that she was having the celebration you never had with that pathetic, low-class grease-stain you married!”

Daniel took the phone from Mariana’s limp hand. He brought it to his mouth, his face completely expressionless.

“Victoria,” he said.

The line went dead silent for two seconds.

“You,” Victoria hissed, her voice shaking with venom. “Put my daughter back on the phone, you mechanic trash. You have no right to speak to me.”

“I am the sole trustee of the Vance Foundation,” Daniel said, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly clear. “Which happens to own the management holding company that controls the St. Regis downtown. I gave the order to clear that ballroom five minutes ago.”

A cold, choking gasp came over the line.

“What… what kind of pathetic lie—”

“You told my wife that my son was a nuisance,” Daniel continued, cutting through her words like a steel hull through ice. “You told her she was erased from your family. So let me clarify something for you, Victoria. You don’t have a family anymore. You have forty-five minutes to clear your guests out of that lobby before the city marshals arrive to impound your car for non-payment of the private valet fleet. Have a wonderful evening.”