In the ambulance, with an oxygen mask on my face and a monitor tracking my baby’s weak but still-present heartbeat, I finally let myself cry. Not from the pain, but from the profound relief of being seen, of being claimed. For the first time in three years, I wasn’t a servant. I wasn’t an orphan. I was Anna Thorne, the daughter of the Chief Justice. And my husband’s legal career, his reputation, his entire world, was about to be surgically dismantled, one law at a time.
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