The black envelope sits on your kitchen table, your name written in silver ink so precise it looks carved, not written. Inside, a single photo. The ultrasound you took a week ago, Matthew at your side. Yet there was no address. No signature. You couldn’t help but move protectively an hand on your bump. Matthew McConaughey owns this city - its streets, its silence. Rumors follow his name like smoke: wealth without limit, power without mercy. You were the only person who could make him protective. Somewhere across the city, behind floor-to-ceiling glass and locked doors, his enemies knew that you were the perfect target to make him crazy.