Chapter 2 - What the Doctor Found
The emergency room doors closed behind me.
For the first time in my life, I understood what helplessness felt like.
I could negotiate billion-dollar contracts.
I could walk into a boardroom and make thirty executives stop talking with one sentence.
But I couldn't make my wife's heart beat faster.
I couldn't force my unborn son to be safe.
I couldn't erase the bruises from her skin.
A nurse finally approached.
"Mr. Vance?"
I stood.
"How is she?"
"She's being examined."
"And my son?"
"They're monitoring the baby's heart rate."
I nodded.
Then waited.
Twenty minutes felt like twenty years.
Finally, Dr. Robins came out.
His expression was serious.
"Mr. Vance, I need to speak with you."
We entered a small consultation room.
He closed the door.
"Your wife is severely dehydrated and anemic. Her nutritional levels are dangerously low."
I stared at him.
"How could that happen in two weeks?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Based on her condition, this appears to have been developing for some time."
My stomach dropped.
"How long?"
"Possibly several weeks. Maybe longer."
I remembered my mother's reports.
Clara had eaten salmon.
Steak.
Fresh vegetables.
Fruit.
Everything the doctor had recommended.
I had believed every word.
Dr. Robins continued.
"She also has bruising around both knees, her forearm, and her ribs."
"Could pregnancy cause that?"
"No."
The answer was immediate.
"No, it could not."
I clenched my fists.
"Is my son safe?"
"He's stable right now."
I exhaled.
"But we're not out of danger."
The doctor paused.
"If your wife had remained in that environment much longer, we could have been facing premature delivery or worse."
I closed my eyes.
The phrase echoed inside my head.
Or worse.
When I returned to the room, Clara was awake.
She looked exhausted.
"Sebastian?"
I sat beside her.
"Tell me everything."
She stared at the ceiling.
"Your mother told me you wouldn't believe me."
"I believe you."
"She said you'd think I wanted your money."
"I believe you."
"She said if I complained, she'd tell you I was unstable."
I reached for her hand.
"What did she do?"
Clara hesitated.
"At first, nothing."
Her voice shook.
"She simply changed the meals."
Then the story came slowly.
Breakfast became toast.
Lunch became soup without meat.
Dinner became whatever Eleanor considered "appropriate."
When Clara complained about hunger, Eleanor told her wealthy women didn't eat constantly.
Then the restrictions became punishment.
If Clara disagreed with her, she lost dinner.
If she asked when I was returning, Eleanor told her I was too busy to care.
Eventually Eleanor invited friends over.
"They laughed at me," Clara whispered.
"How many times?"
"I don't know."
"Clara."
"Almost every week."
My stomach turned.
"And the table?"
She closed her eyes.
"That started three weeks ago."
I felt something inside me crack.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She started crying.
"I tried."
I froze.
"What?"
She looked at me.
"I called you twice."
I remembered those calls.
My mother had told me Clara was sleeping.
I hadn't called back.
She continued.
"She took my phone away for a while."
I couldn't breathe.
"She said I needed to stop being dramatic."
I leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
"I'm sorry."
She shook her head.
"This isn't your fault."
"It is."
"No."
"I left you with her."
"You trusted your mother."
"That doesn't make it better."
Clara squeezed my hand.
Then she whispered:
"There's something else."
I waited.
"Your mother wasn't the only person involved."
The room became silent.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Clara, who?"
She looked frightened again.
"Someone has been entering your office."
My blood ran cold.
"My office?"
"At home."
"How do you know?"
"Your mother told me you didn't need to know about some financial changes."
"What financial changes?"
"I don't know."
I stood.
"I'll find out."
Clara grabbed my wrist.
"Sebastian."
I looked down.
"Don't go after her angry."
"I'm not angry."
Clara gave me a tired look.
"You're shaking."
I realized she was right.
I sat back down.
She whispered:
"I don't want revenge."
"What do you want?"
She smiled faintly.
"I want our son to come home."
I touched her stomach.
"So do I."
Outside the hospital room, my phone vibrated.
An email had arrived.
From my chief financial officer.
URGENT: We have discovered unauthorized transfers from the family account.
I opened the attachment.
My mother's name appeared on the first page.
But beneath it was another name.
A name I recognized immediately.
My chief operating officer.
Daniel Mercer.
My most trusted executive.
May you like
And suddenly this wasn't just a family betrayal.
Someone was attacking my company.
