Chapter 4 - The Celebration at the Grand Hyatt
Three weeks later.
The Grand Ballroom of the Hyatt Regency was illuminated by gold spotlights and massive crystal chandeliers. Over four hundred guests—surgeons, hospital administrators, venture capitalists, and local politicians—milled about the room, sipping champagne and eating caviar from silver trays.
Tonight was the annual Northbridge Medical Innovation Gala.
At the center of the main stage stood a seven-foot-tall promotional banner depicting a sleek, titanium artificial heart valve resting in a human palm.
Above it, in glowing gold lettering, read: BENNETT BIOMEDICAL: THE FUTURE OF CARDIAC SURGERY.
Cole Bennett stood near the stage, wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a glass of vintage champagne. Beside him stood Sloane Avery, wearing a form-fitting emerald gown that clearly displayed her rounded, seven-month belly.
Cole’s mother, Donna, sat at a VIP table nearby, beaming at her son as if he had personally invented electricity.
“You look handsome, darling,” Sloane whispered, slipping her arm through Cole’s, resting her head against his shoulder. “Everyone is talking about the presentation.”
“They should be,” Cole smiled, his face flushed with the warm glow of success and champagne. “The board approves the twenty-five-million-dollar transfer at midnight. By tomorrow morning, Bennett Biomedical will be valued at over two hundred million.”
“And Claire?” Sloane asked softly, her tone carrying a faint, fake note of sympathy. “Has she signed the quiet-settlement papers yet?”
Cole’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a dark shadow flickering across his eyes before he forced it away. “Her lawyer called this morning. She’s staying at her father’s estate in Massachusetts. She hasn't left the house in three weeks. She’s completely broken, Sloane. She won't be a problem.”
“Good,” Sloane purred, smoothing her dress over her stomach. “She was always so dramatic. Imagine blaming you for a natural miscarriage.”
“It wasn't a miscarriage,” a calm, clear voice spoke from behind them. “It was a fatal placental abruption brought on by physical trauma and extreme psychological distress.”
Cole froze.
The champagne glass in his hand tilted slightly, spilling a few drops onto his polished leather shoes.
He turned slowly around.
Standing three feet away was Dr. Claire Bennett.
She didn't look like a broken woman hiding in Massachusetts. She wore a high-collared, floor-length gown of black velvet that hugged her long, athletic frame. Her dark hair was styled into a sharp, sophisticated undo, and around her neck rested a simple strand of South Sea pearls.
Beside her stood Richard Vance, looking like an emperor in a dark tuxedo, and Arthur Pendelton, holding a thin leather document folder.
The surrounding guests began to turn, whispers rippling through the crowd as people recognized the legendary Dr. Richard Vance.
Cole’s face went pale, then bright red. “Claire? What... what are you doing here? You shouldn't be out of bed!”
“I’m feeling much better, Cole,” Claire said, her voice smooth, carrying effortlessly across the circle of surrounding onlookers. “Post-operative recovery goes remarkably fast once you cut out the septic tissue.”
Sloane’s eyes narrowed, her hand tightening on Cole’s arm. “This is a private corporate event, Claire. You can’t just crash—”
“I didn't crash, Sloane,” Claire interrupted politely, pulling a gold-embossed invitation from her small velvet clutch. “As the co-founder, primary patent holder, and thirty percent equity owner of Bennett Biomedical, I was invited by the board.”
Donna Bennett stood up from her table, her diamond necklaces rattling as she stepped forward with a scowl. “Claire! Have you no shame? Coming here to embarrass my son after everything he’s done for you? You should be home mourning your lost child instead of causing a scene!”
Claire looked at Donna. The look was so cold, so utterly devoid of emotion, that Donna actually took a step back, her mouth staying open without sound.
“My daughter died three weeks ago, Donna,” Claire said quietly. “And while I was in the operating theatre having her body removed from mine, your son was buying a townhouse for his mistress using my money.”
A collective, audible gasp echoed from the surrounding guests.
Several prominent surgeons from Northbridge General exchanged wide-eyed looks. Robert Avery—Sloane’s father—who had been standing near the bar, suddenly stopped mid-sip, his eyes bulging as he stared at Cole.
May you like
Cole took a hasty step toward Claire, lowering his voice into a furious whisper. “Shut up, Claire! Shut your mouth right now! You are ruining everything!”
“No, Cole,” Claire said, stepping back into the light of the main stage, her voice ringing clear and true. “I’m not ruining anything. I’m just starting the audit.”
