Chapter 2 - Mercy General
The bright fluorescent lights of the Mercy General Emergency Department flickered rhythmically overhead as the stretcher rolled down Trauma Bay 3. Medical staff moved around me in a choreographed blur of scrubs, latex gloves, and urgent jargon.
"BP is 145 over 95, heart rate elevated at 112," a nurse announced, wrapping a heavy cuff around my upper arm.
"Fetal heart monitor attached," another medic called out.
A sharp, static hum echoed through the small room, followed by a faint, rapid beating sound. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
I let out a ragged breath I felt like I had been holding for hours. She was alive. Rose was still fighting.
"Mrs. Vance, I'm Dr. Evelyn Chen," a tall woman in surgical scrubs said, stepping up to my side and placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You're experiencing premature labor brought on by severe physical trauma and acute stress. We've started you on magnesium sulfate to slow down the contractions and steroids to accelerate the baby's lung development. But you need to stay entirely still."
"Is she going to be okay?" I begged, tears cutting clean lines through the dried blood on my face.
"We are doing everything we can," Dr. Chen said firmly. "Your baby is strong, but thirty-two weeks means every hour we keep her inside is crucial."
Outside the glass doors of Trauma Bay 3, I could see my brothers. Caleb stood like a monolithic wall, his arms folded over his broad chest, his sharp eyes never leaving the room. Beside him, Luke—the youngest of the three and an absolute technical genius who managed intelligence for Miller Security—was already hunched over his high-end laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard with terrifying speed. Dylan was on his phone, talking in low, clipped sentences to someone on his team.
They were a protective shield. They had always been. When our parents died in a highway accident six years ago, my brothers had rallied around me, becoming my guardians, my confidants, and my fiercest defenders. The only mistake they had ever made was trusting me when I told them Grant was a good man.
A nurse handed me my cracked phone after cleaning the blood off my cheek. "Your family made sure we brought this in for you."
Almost on cue, the shattered screen began to vibrate.
An incoming call. Grant.
My heart gave an involuntary, painful tug. Part of my brain—the battered, conditioned part that had spent six years trying to keep the peace—wanted to believe he was calling because he realized what he’d done. Wanted to believe he was sprinting down the hospital hallway right now, frantic with regret.
I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear.
"Grant?" I whispered.
"What on earth is going on, Emma?" His voice came through the receiver, sharp, irritated, and clipped. There was background noise—clinking wine glasses, smooth jazz, and distant laughter from an upscale steakhouse.
No panic. No fear. Just sheer annoyance.
He didn't ask if I was alive. He didn't ask if his baby was breathing.
"I'm at Mercy General, Grant," I said, my voice dropping into a flat, steady pitch that surprised even me. "I'm bleeding. The doctors are trying to stop me from going into full labor."
There was a brief pause on the line. I heard him shift his phone, likely stepping out into a quieter corridor of the restaurant.
"I thought you were just panicking again," he said, offering a sigh that sounded thoroughly exhausted. "You’ve been dramatic about every small cramp for the past month. How was I supposed to know you weren't exaggerating?"
"I called you twelve times, Grant."
"I was in an important business dinner with Madison and her father," he snapped back, lowering his voice slightly. "I am trying to secure a senior partnership at this firm, Emma! I can't keep jumping every time you have an anxiety attack!"
The audacity of his words hit me like a physical slap, but instead of breaking me, it solidified something cold and unyielding deep inside my chest.
"I found your ring," I said quietly.
Silence stretched across the line.
"I needed space," he replied smoothly, his tone shifting into his practiced corporate damage-control voice. "We've been tense. I took it off before I left. It's not a big deal."
"And the front door?" I asked. "Did you lock the deadbolt from the outside when you left?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Dylan had to come through the back glass door because the front entry was locked from the outside. You left me unconscious on the kitchen floor and locked the door behind you."
"Don't be ridiculous," Grant hissed, his composure cracking slightly. "You probably locked it yourself earlier and forgot. You're emotional, Emma. Your brain is a mess right now."
"I was inside, Grant. You can't lock that specific deadbolt from the inside without a key unless you turn the thumb-latch from the outside."
"I don't have time for your conspiracies!" he barked, clearly flustered. "I'll come to the hospital after I wrap up dessert here. Don't make a scene in front of your brothers."
"Don't bother coming," I said.
"What?"
"You ignored twelve calls while I was bleeding. You told me to stop embarrassing myself. You left me locked inside." I took a deep, steadying breath, looking through the glass at Caleb, who was watching me closely. "You don't get to come here now."
"Emma, don't you dare—"
I ended the call.
My phone chimed almost immediately with a text message from Caleb:
Caleb: Dylan has the ring preserved. Luke pulled the screen logs from your phone. Dylan took photos of the locked front bolt before unlocking it from the inside.
Emma: Did he really lock me in?
Caleb: The lock on your front door is a Yale Smart-Latch with a mechanical bypass. Luke just accessed the local hub log remotely. The manual key turn was logged at 6:14 PM from the outside. You went down at 6:10 PM.
My breath hitched. He knew. He had seen me collapse, walked out the front door, turned the key from the outside so no one could casually walk in, and gone to dinner with his mistress.
Caleb: Luke is compiling everything now. We want your permission to handle this.
Emma: No violence, Caleb. Please.
May you like
Caleb: No violence. Just the truth. He thinks he’s smart, Emma. He forgot who raised you.
I gripped the edge of the hospital bed as another small contraction rippled across my stomach. The fight for my daughter’s life was taking place in this room. But outside, my brothers were preparing to dismantle Grant’s entire existence piece by piece. And this time, I wasn't going to stand in their way.
