They didn’t wait for dawn.

By 5:03 a.m. the mansion was empty except for the lingering reek of piss-soaked sheets and drying cum. Victoria had thrown clothes into two black duffels—nothing sentimental, only lingerie that still carried faint stains, a few coils of rope, the old pregnancy photo now laminated and tucked inside her bra like a talisman, and the single thumb drive containing the only remaining copy of the basement murder footage. Marcus drove. Kessler rode shotgun, service weapon on his lap, eyes flicking between the road and Victoria’s reflection in the rearview mirror where she sat in the back with Elena cradled between her thighs.