Chapter 4 - The Emergency Bay
The private maternity ward of Saint Jude’s Medical Center was quiet, save for the rhythmic, soothing beat of the fetal heart monitor.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Dr. Karen Aris, the chief of maternal-fetal medicine, stepped back from the ultrasound console, wiping the warm gel from Alora’s rounded stomach. She adjusted her glasses and looked at me with a solemn, reassuring expression.
"The baby's heart rate is stable, Thane," Dr. Aris announced softly. "The placenta shows no signs of abruption despite the physical trauma. However, Alora has severe soft-tissue bruising along her scalp, wrist lacerations from being held down, and acute psychological shock."
I sat beside the bed, holding Alora’s small, cold hand between both of mine. "Is there any risk of early labor?"
"We are keeping her under observation for seventy-two hours," Dr. Aris replied. "She needs absolute quiet, zero stress, and complete isolation from any external conflict. If her blood pressure spikes again, we will be forced to perform an emergency C-section."
"She will get complete quiet," I promised.
When Dr. Aris left the room, Alora turned her head slowly on the white pillow. Her face was pale, the blue bruising along her hairline vividly visible under the room's soft lighting.
"Thane..." she whispered, her voice fragile. "Your mother... she kept saying that you only married me because of your father's will. She said you hated me."
A cold, razor-sharp pang of guilt sliced through my chest. For two years, I had maintained a quiet distance between my family and my marriage, foolishly assuming that paying for my mother's $30,000-a-month penthouse and Sloan's tuition would keep their greed satisfied. I had allowed venomous snakes to nest outside my paradise, assuming money would buy their silence.
"They lied to you, Alora," I said, pressing my lips gently against her knuckles. "I married you because you are the only real thing in my life. My father’s will gave me nothing except a name. Everything I built, I built for us."
"They wanted the deeds to the ocean estate," Alora murmured, tears welling in her eyes. "Sloan had a power-of-attorney document already typed out. She was going to force my finger onto an ink pad while your mother held me down."
My jaw tightened so hard the muscles along my cheek throbbed.
"They aren't getting a single square inch of land," I told her, my voice dropping into a register of absolute finality. "They are going to prison."
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The door opened quietly, and my senior corporate counsel, Vance Sterling (my late father's brother who had broken ties with Corrine twenty years ago), stepped into the room holding a thick leather briefcase.
"Thane," Vance said in his deep, gravelly voice. "The District Attorney has just reviewed the 4K cloud video. He’s calling it the most ironclad prosecution file he’s seen in thirty years."
