Chapter 3 - The Harrington Tower & The Doctor's Care
The penthouse atop the Harrington Tower occupied the top three floors of the seventy-story monolith on Wacker Drive, overlooking the frozen expanse of the Chicago River and the ink-black sheet of Lake Michigan beyond.
When the private elevator opened directly into the marble foyer, a medical team was already waiting.
Dr. Evelyn Ross, the head of obstetrics at Northwestern Memorial and Clara’s family physician since childhood, stood with two nurses in pristine scrubs beside a mobile diagnostic cart.
"Clara, darling," Dr. Ross said, immediately stepping forward and taking Clara’s cold hands into her warm ones. "Let’s get you out of those wet clothes and have a look at that little girl."
For the next forty-five minutes, Clara was enveloped in the quiet, seamless efficiency of unlimited wealth applied with love. She was dressed in a silk robe, settled onto a heated examination chaise in the penthouse’s private medical suite, and hooked up to a high-resolution ultrasound.
Richard stood in the corner of the room, his overcoat gone, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, watching the monitor with an intensity he had never applied to any corporate merger.
The rhythmic, galloping beat of the fetal heart filled the room—*thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump*.
"Cervix is closed, fluid levels are optimal, and the heart rate is a rock-solid one-forty-five," Dr. Ross announced, turning the monitor toward Clara with a brilliant smile. "Your daughter is stubborn, Clara. Just like her mother. But your blood pressure is high, and your cortisol levels are elevated. You’ve been under extreme stress."
"She’s safe now," Richard said from the shadows. His voice was quiet, but it filled the room like thunder.
"She needs bed rest for the next forty-eight hours, Richard," Dr. Ross said, wiping the gel from Clara’s belly. "Warm fluids, light food, zero stress. If she has any contractions, I want her at the hospital immediately."
"She will not lift a finger," Richard replied.
Once the medical team had packed their equipment and departed, Clara was escorted to her old bedroom on the sixty-ninth floor. Nothing had changed. The walls were still the same soft dove-gray; her easel still stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding an unfinished canvas of the Maine coastline she had started when she was twenty-one.
Her maid, Maria, who had helped raise Clara after her mother passed, entered with a silver tray holding a bowl of clear chicken consommé, crusty French bread, and fresh fruit.
"Eat, *mi niña*," Maria whispered, kissing Clara’s forehead, her eyes shining with tears. "You are home now. The monsters cannot touch you here."
Clara ate in silence, the hot broth restoring her strength. With every bite, the haze of numbness that had gripped her in the Lincoln Park townhouse began to burn away, replaced by an astonishing, crystal-clear lucidity.
For five years, she had contorted herself into a smaller shape to fit David’s fragile ego. When he failed his first licensing exam, she had stayed up until 3:00 a.m. writing flashcards for him, pretending she didn't already understand the material better than he did. When he bought his ridiculous Porsche and complained about the monthly payments, she had quietly started buying store-brand groceries and cutting her own hair. She had pretended that his shallow, climbing ambition was passion. She had excused his growing arrogance as the byproduct of stress.
She had made herself poor so that he could feel rich.
And in return, he had taken her child’s future, brought a twenty-three-year-old mistress into their bed, and thrown her into a subzero blizzard without a second glance.
The door clicked open.
Richard walked in, holding a slim leather folder. He sat in the armchair opposite her bed, crossing his long legs. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed midnight.
"Marcus Vance is in the library downstairs with six forensic accountants," Richard said smoothly. "We’ve pulled every record associated with David Hughes."
Clara set her spoon down. "What did you find?"
Richard opened the folder. "Your husband is remarkably predictable, Clara. He isn't just an unfaithful coward; he is an idiot."
He handed her the first sheet.
"David works for Meridian Capital," Richard explained. "What he does not know—because we deliberately obscure our venture holdings behind secondary trusts—is that Harrington Group owns a sixty-two percent controlling stake in Meridian’s parent fund."
Clara looked up, her eyebrows lifting. "He works for you?"
"Indirectly, yes. And on Monday morning, David is scheduled to lead the final pitch presentation for the Riverfront Redevelopment Project—a four-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar municipal bond initiative that Meridian has been pursuing for three years."
Clara knew about the project. David had talked about it incessantly for months. He called it his "ticket to the eight-figure club." He had bragged that once he closed the Riverfront deal, the senior partners would have no choice but to hand him an equity stake.
"David didn't write the pitch," Clara said quietly.
Richard’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"The analytical framework, the tax abatement strategy, the risk modeling—I did it," Clara said, her voice completely calm now. "He struggled with the multivariate regression models for the ground leases. He left his laptop open on the kitchen island two months ago, panicking because the managing partner threatened to reassign the lead. I redid the entire financial architecture over three nights while he was sleeping."
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Richard Harrington’s face. It was the smile of a king who had just been handed the keys to his enemy’s armory.
"He used your work," Richard said.
"Every single slide," Clara replied. "He put his name on the cover. He believes it is his masterpiece."
Richard closed the folder with a sharp, decisive snap.
"Monday morning," Richard said softly. "Ten o’clock. Boardroom A at Harrington Tower. The Meridian team is presenting directly to the primary investor."
"To you," Clara whispered.
"To us," Richard corrected her. "You are the Vice Chairman of Harrington Group, Clara. You’ve held the seat since you turned twenty-five. You’ve let it sit vacant while you lived your little experiment in Lincoln Park. Do you want to resign it?"
Clara looked down at her hands. The skin was soft, but underneath, her pulse beat with the iron blood of her ancestors. She thought of Chloe’s smirk. She thought of David’s cold eyes looking at her belly and calling her dead weight.
"No," Clara said. Her voice didn't waver. "I want to attend the meeting."
May you like
Richard leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Then get some sleep, my darling. On Monday, we teach Mr. Hughes what happens when you kick a queen out into the cold."
***
