Chapter 3 - THE FIRST DOMINO FALLS
At 7:30 PM, Alejandro Vance was sitting at an exclusive corner table at RPM Steak in downtown Chicago.
Across from him sat Claudia Miller, wearing a designer silk dress that I had bought her for her thirty-fifth birthday, sipping a $300 glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Beside her was a high-end baby stroller containing their one-year-old son, Liam.
Alejandro felt like the king of the world. He had pulled off the ultimate maneuver. Camila was almost certainly either dead on an operating table or rendered completely incapacitated by complex brain surgery. Either way, he had a signed divorce and asset settlement agreement in his pocket, clearing his path to step into the vast Vance estate as the grieving, noble husband who deserved full control.
He motioned to the sommelier.
“We’ll take a bottle of the 2015 Château Margaux,” Alejandro said smoothly, flashing his bright white smile. “And bring us the dry-aged porterhouse for two.”
“Right away, Mr. Vance,” the waiter said respectfully, bowing before hurrying off.
Claudia leaned across the white linen tablecloth, her eyes shining with greed. “Did she really sign it without asking questions?”
“She was terrified, high on pre-meds, and weak,” Alejandro smirked, taking a sip of his water. “She signed whatever I put in front of her. Women like Camila have no fight in them when reality hits. By next week, the penthouse will be legally registered under our family entity, and we can finally redecorate. I hate her father’s antique furniture.”
“And what about her trust funds?” Claudia asked, lowering her voice. “How long until the probate court releases the capital distribution?”
“My lawyer is handling it,” Alejandro reassured her, reaching out to stroke her hand. “Don’t worry, babe. You and Liam are never going to work another day in your lives.”
Twenty minutes later, the exquisite dinner had been consumed, and the sommelier poured the last of the wine. The waiter approached with a silver tray bearing the bill.
Total: $1,845.20.
Alejandro didn't even look at the total. He casually pulled out his sleek, black metal American Express Centurion card—the infamous 'Black Card'—and laid it on the silver tray.
“Keep the change on a twenty percent tip,” he said grandly.
“Thank you, Mr. Vance. I will return shortly.”
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Alejandro began to tap his foot impatiently. “What is taking them so long?”
Claudia adjusted the baby's blanket. “Maybe their reader is down.”
Finally, the restaurant manager himself approached the table, accompanied by the server. The manager did not look respectful. He looked cold, professional, and slightly uncomfortable.
He leaned down softly. “Mr. Vance, I’m afraid we have a small issue.”
Alejandro frowned. “What issue?”
“This card was declined, sir,” the manager said, holding out the black card.
Alejandro laughed out loud, waving his hand dismissively. “Declined? Don't be ridiculous. That is an uncapped Centurion card. Run it again. Your machine is malfunctioning.”
“We ran it three times, sir,” the manager replied, his voice dropping an octave so neighboring tables wouldn't hear, though a few head turns had already occurred. “The system code states 'Account Closed by Primary Cardholder'. Do you have an alternative form of payment?”
Alejandro’s face flushed bright red. “Primary cardholder? I am Alejandro Vance! This is my account!”
“Sir, the system indicates you are an authorized secondary user, and the primary account holder—Camila Vance—revoked your purchasing privileges forty-five minutes ago.”
Claudia gasped, her cheeks turning pale. “What? Camila? But she’s in surgery!”
Alejandro felt a cold spike of panic shoot through his chest, but he quickly masked it with anger. He snatched the card back. “This is a bureaucratic glitch. The bank made an error. Fine.”
He reached into his leather wallet and pulled out his backup Visa Platinum. “Use this.”
The manager took the card, walked back to the terminal, and returned ninety seconds later. His expression was even colder.
“This one was also declined, Mr. Vance. 'Authorization Revoked'.”
Sweat began to bead along Alejandro’s hairline. His tailored suit suddenly felt tight and suffocating.
“Is there a problem here, Alejandro?” Claudia whispered, her voice laced with sudden anxiety.
“No! Of course not!” Alejandro barked. He dug through his wallet, pulling out a personal debit card connected to his small business checking account at a local Chicago bank. “Use this one!”
The manager processed it. This time, it went through, deducting the $1,845.20 directly from Alejandro’s small personal operating account—wiping out nearly thirty percent of his remaining liquid cash.
Alejandro signed the receipt with a trembling hand, snatched his jacket, and practically dragged Claudia and the stroller out of the restaurant.
“Call her!” Claudia hissed as soon as they hit the cool night air on Rush Street. “Call the hospital right now!”
Alejandro pulled out his phone and dialed my number.
“The party you are trying to reach has blocked your number.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen in utter disbelief. He dialed the Northwestern Memorial ICU desk directly.
“ICU desk, how can I direct your call?” a nurse answered.
“This is Alejandro Vance. I need to speak to Dr. Mercer or get an update on my wife, Camila Vance!”
“One moment, sir... Ah, yes. Mr. Vance, I have a note here updated by Ms. Vance’s legal representative twenty minutes ago. Ms. Vance has explicitly removed you from her HIPAA authorization list and her guest clearance. You are no longer permitted in her room or on this floor. If you attempt to enter the building, security will have you removed.”
“What? I am her husband!” Alejandro screamed into the phone.
“Have a good evening, sir,” the nurse said, and the line went dead.
May you like
Alejandro stood under the bright neon lights of the Chicago entertainment district, holding a dead phone, as a terrifying realization began to form in his mind:
Camila was alive. She was awake. And she knew.
