Avery’s father did not walk; he advanced.
Grant’s amused smile evaporated, replaced by a mask of sudden, profound confusion. He took a half-step backward, instinctively moving away from Brooke as if distance could rewrite the last ten minutes.
“Thomas,” Grant said, his voice attempting to locate its usual boardroom baritone and failing miserably. “What are you doing here? Avery and I were just having a minor disagreement—”
Thomas Vance did not look at Grant.
He didn’t look at Brooke, who was suddenly clutching her Chanel jacket like a shield.
Thomas looked only at his daughter. He saw the pale blue of her maternity dress. He saw the way she braced her hands protectively over her swollen stomach. And then, with the terrifying, microscopic focus of a man who had spent thirty years dismantling criminal empires as a United States Attorney, he saw the thin smear of crimson blood at the corner of Avery’s mouth.