Chapter 3 - The Threat at the Glass
The silence in the room was deafening. My chest heaved as I stared at the paper sitting on my bedside tray.
Emergency Custody Transfer & Guardianship Application.
Evelyn stood beside her lawyer, perfectly composed, watching me like a hawk waiting to tear apart its prey. She actually believed she had won. She believed that because I grew up in a cramped two-bedroom apartment eating cheap soup and wearing thrift-store clothes, I would crumble under the shadow of her money and power.
Suddenly, Adam stepped between Evelyn and my bed.
He didn't just step forward; he put his whole body in front of me, shoving Richard Sterling back so hard the lawyer stumbled into the wall.
“Touch her again, or put one more piece of paper near my wife, and I will tear your throat out,” Adam growled, his voice deep, guttural, and trembling with rage.
Evelyn gasped, horrified. “Adam! How dare you speak to me like that! I am your mother!”
“You are a monster,” Adam said, stepping closer to her until he was towering over her small frame. “You pushed my pregnant wife down a flight of stairs. You almost killed my daughter. And if you think for one second that I am going to let you come near either of them ever again, you have lost your mind.”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Don't be foolish, Adam. Everything you have—your trust fund, your position at the firm, your house—it all belongs to the Vance estate. My estate. You cross me, and I will strip you down to nothing. You will be as broke as this little orphan you married.”
“Take it,” Adam said without missing a beat. “Take every single penny. I’d rather sleep on the street with my wife and daughter than live another day off your blood money.”
Evelyn turned pale. She wasn't used to losing control. For thirty-six years, money had been her absolute leash on Adam.
“We are leaving,” Evelyn snapped at her lawyer, snatching the papers off the table. She turned her icy gaze back to me. “This isn't over, Nora. The hospital ethics board will hear about your inability to provide a stable environment. By the time that child leaves the NICU, she will be coming home with me.”
She turned on her heels and swept out of the room, her high heels clicking loudly against the tile floor.
The moment the door slammed shut, Adam turned around and collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He was shaking uncontrollably.
“Adam,” I whispered, touching his shoulder.
He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, Nora. I’m so sorry I didn't protect you. I knew what she was capable of, and I still let her throw that stupid party.”
“We don't have time for guilt,” I said, my voice hardening. A strange, primal strength was beginning to wash over the pain in my body. The motherly instinct to protect my child was burning out every trace of fear. “Take me to the NICU. Right now.”
“Nora, you just had major abdominal surgery—”
“I don't care if my stitches burst,” I commanded, my eyes locking onto his. “Take me to my daughter.”
Ten minutes later, Adam pushed me down the long, quiet hallway of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in a wheelchair. The room was dark, lit only by the glowing screens of dozens of monitors. The air smelled of sterile plastic and rubbing alcohol.
We stopped in front of Incubator 4.
Inside the clear plastic box lay a tiny, fragile soul. She was so small she barely covered the palm of a hand. Wires were taped to her chest, a tiny feeding tube went into her mouth, and a miniature breathing machine hummed steadily, forcing her little chest to rise and fall.
On the blue wristband wrapped around her tiny ankle, it read: BABY GIRL RUTH VANCE.
Tears filled my eyes, but they weren't tears of sadness anymore. They were tears of pure, fierce love.
I reached through the rubber porthole of the incubator and gently rested the tip of my pinky finger against her miniature palm.
Instantly, her tiny fingers curled around mine. A weak, microscopic squeeze.
“She’s fighting,” I whispered, a sob bursting from my chest. “Look at her, Adam. She’s fighting.”
“She’s a fighter like her mother,” Adam whispered, kneeling beside my wheelchair and resting his head against my arm.
Suddenly, a heavy shadow fell across the glass wall separating the NICU observation hallway from the clean room.
I snapped my head up.
Standing on the other side of the glass was Evelyn.
She was standing under the dim hallway light, staring directly at the incubator. But she wasn't looking at the baby with love or concern. Her face was cold, calculating, and hungry.
May you like
She slowly raised her right hand and pressed her palm flat against the glass wall. She looked directly into my eyes, smiled a sinister, quiet smile, and mouthed three words through the reinforced glass:
“She is mine.”
