Chapter 6 - The Hospital Suite on Thursday Night
While the foundation of Derek’s life was disintegrating across Hartford, the atmosphere in Suite 12 at Saint Jude’s was serene, warm, and filled with the scent of fresh white lilies that Arthur had ordered from a boutique florist down the street.
Claire sat in a plush armchair near the window, wearing a soft wool robe over a clean maternity dress. Her color had returned, her skin was clear, and her hand rested comfortably over her bump.
Dr. Evelyn Vance stood near the small medical cart, reviewing the latest monitoring strips with a small smile.
“Your uterine activity is completely normal now, Claire,” Dr. Vance said, unclipping the digital sensor from Claire’s wrist. “The bed rest worked. Your vitals are perfect, your blood pressure is back to 110 over 70, and the baby has settled back into an ideal position.”
“Can I walk tomorrow?” Claire asked.
“You can do more than walk,” Dr. Vance replied. “You can be discharged tomorrow morning if you wish. Though if I were you, I’d stay another night just to enjoy the chef’s soup. The hospital trust spends fifty thousand a year on that kitchen.”
Claire smiled—a genuine, warm expression that reached her eyes for the first time in months. “Thank you, Evelyn. For everything.”
“Don't thank me,” Dr. Vance said, snapping her file shut. “Thank your own resilience. Most women in your situation would have spent the last forty-eight hours weeping into a pillow. You’ve spent it organizing an execution.”
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Arthur Montgomery stepped into the room, holding two coffee cups from a high-end cafe down the street. He looked relaxed, almost jovial, his charcoal suit replaced by an understated cashmere sweater and dark trousers.
“Evelyn,” Arthur nodded to the doctor. “Are we ready to return my niece to the real world?”
“She’s fully recovered, Arthur,” Dr. Vance said, taking her coat from the rack near the door. “Just make sure she doesn't do any heavy lifting. Emotionally or physically.”
“Oh, Claire won't be lifting anything,” Arthur said, handing one of the cups to Claire. “Thomas and I have hired a full-time staff for the West Hartford estate. Drivers, housekeepers, and a private nursing team for when the little princess arrives.”
When Dr. Vance had stepped out and closed the door behind her, Arthur sat down on the ottoman opposite Claire’s chair, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
“Richard Miller called my office six times today,” Arthur remarked casually.
Claire raised an eyebrow. “Only six?”
“Six times directly to my private line,” Arthur corrected himself with a dry chuckle. “His attorneys have sent four separate settlement proposals to Vance & Sterling since three o’clock. They are offering a full restructuring of the Henderson contract, a public apology from Apex Logistics, and a three-million-dollar upfront licensing fee for the rights to your software architecture.”
Claire looked down at her coffee cup. “And what did Thomas tell them?”
“Thomas told them that the owner of Patent #M-8891 is currently evaluating her options and will make a decision at twelve o'clock tomorrow,” Arthur said, his eyes glittering with quiet satisfaction. “Miller is currently sitting in his office with a bottle of scotch, waiting for a phone call that isn't coming.”
“What about Derek?” Claire asked, her voice calm, almost curious.
Arthur pulled a slim black notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.
“Derek spent his afternoon at the Hartford County Land Records office trying to find the original title deed for Birchwood Arms,” Arthur reported. “He discovered that the property is owned by Sterling Real Estate Trust, an entity registered in Delaware. He then went to the First National Bank on Main Street to apply for a emergency personal loan using his projected Q3 bonus as collateral.”
Claire leaned back against her chair. “And?”
“And the bank officer informed him that his bonus verification had been flagged by Apex’s legal department due to pending internal review,” Arthur said. “He was denied the loan in front of four people in the lobby.”
Claire shook her head slowly, a cold sense of wonder washing over her.
It was incredible, she thought, how quickly a man could fall when his entire life was constructed out of paper cards. For three years, Derek had projected an image of competence, authority, and financial stability. He had talked down to her, corrected her grammar in front of his mother, and treated her design work like a small, harmless hobby.
He had genuinely believed he was the pillar supporting their life.
He had never realized that the ground he was standing on was a slab of granite she had quietly laid beneath his feet.
“Uncle Arthur,” Claire said softly.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Has he tried to call my phone?”
Arthur’s face hardened slightly. “He has called your number thirty-four times since five o’clock yesterday afternoon. His mother has called nine times. His mistress sent two text messages asking if you were 'satisfied with causing a scene.'”
Claire held out her hand. “Give me my phone.”
Arthur hesitated. “Claire—”
“My battery is charged now, Uncle Arthur,” she said, her voice soft but entirely firm. “I want to see what he wrote.”
Arthur reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out Claire’s sleek silver smartphone, and handed it to her.
Claire unlocked the screen. The notification panel was flooded with red icons: missed calls, voicemails, and text threads from numbers she had once held dear.
She tapped Derek’s thread first:
Wednesday 6:12 PM: Claire, where are you? Pick up the phone. There’s a mistake with the Henderson server. Wednesday 8:45 PM: Claire, this isn't funny. Miller is asking questions. Call me right now. Thursday 11:30 AM: Claire, please. I know you’re angry about Tuesday night. I was stressed. Mom was pushing me. We need to talk about the patent letter. Thursday 4:15 PM: Claire, my job is on the line! Is this what you wanted? To ruin my career over a fight? Call me back or I’m going to the police! Thursday 7:30 PM: Claire... please. Just tell Thomas Vance to release the license for twenty-four hours. I’m begging you. I’m at the apartment. Mom is crying. Please.
Claire read every word without her heart rate shifting by a single beat on the bedside monitor.
There was no inquiry about her health. No question about whether she had found shelter in the flash flood. No concern for his unborn daughter who had been subjected to freezing rain because he wanted to impress a girl from the internet.
Every single message was about him. His job. His stress. His mother’s tears. His career.
Even at the absolute bottom of his self-inflicted ruin, Derek Shaw was incapable of seeing anyone other than himself.
Claire tapped the screen once, opened the contact settings, and selected BLOCK THIS NUMBER.
She did the same for Barbara. And for Amber.
She handed the phone back to Arthur.
“Tomorrow at eleven,” Claire said, looking out at the glittering lights of downtown Hartford. “I want to go back to Birchwood Arms.”
May you like
Arthur looked at her thoughtfully. “Evelyn said no heavy stress, Claire.”
“It won't be stressful, Uncle Arthur,” Claire said, a small, dark smile touching the corners of her lips. “It will be a closing ceremony.”
