Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Arrival
The heavy oak front door chimed softly—a polite, unassuming chime that was entirely out of place in the grand, oppressive atmosphere of the mansion. No one heard it at first over the hum of polite conversation and the clinking of crystal. But then the brass handle turned, and the heavy door swung inward.
Sister Beatrice, a senior visiting midwife from St. Jude’s Maternal Care Unit, stepped into the foyer. She wore her crisp, navy-blue clinical uniform, practical walking shoes, and carried a heavy leather medical case. Her face was weathered by years of handling the most critical, high-risk pregnancies in the district, and her eyes possessed the terrifying clarity of a woman who had seen every human failing imaginable and had grown entirely immune to intimidation.
She paused, taking in the scene: the thirty wealthy relatives clustered around the dining table, the flashing studio lights, Julian standing with a glass of scotch, Diana clutching Clara’s hospital bag like a trophy, and Clara herself, huddled on the floor in a pool of blood and humiliation.
Sister Beatrice didn't say a word. She walked past the receiving parlor, her boots clicking sharply against the marble floor, until she reached the edge of the gift table.
Julian cleared his throat, stepping forward to block her path. "Pardon me, Sister, but this is a private family function. You must have the wrong address. The community clinic is three blocks down."
Sister Beatrice looked past him, her gaze locking onto the red stain beneath Clara’s bandage, then slowly traveling up to the pale, sweat-soaked face of the pregnant woman.
"I am Sister Beatrice from St. Jude’s," she said, her voice low, resonant, and entirely devoid of warmth. "I am here to conduct a mandatory post-discharge welfare check for Patient Clara Vance, whose perinatological file explicitly states that she is under strict, unyielding mobility restrictions due to a grade-four placenta previa and an acute ligament rupture. Now... why is my patient crawling across a hardwood floor?"
Elena stepped up, chin raised in practiced arrogance. "She is throwing a temper tantrum, Sister. We told her to exercise, as per general health guidelines, and she chose to fling herself onto the rug for attention."
Sister Beatrice turned her cold, analytical gaze onto Elena. "A grade-four placenta previa combined with a torn deltoid ligament does not 'exercise' by crawling, madam. It results in hemorrhaging if movement is forced. Which," she added, pointing a gloved finger at the floor, "has clearly just happened."
"She’s fine," Julian interjected, his voice rising in panic as a few of the relatives began to murmur among themselves. "She was just making a scene. We moved her wheelchair temporarily so she wouldn't roll it into the guests."
"You moved her wheelchair?" Sister Beatrice asked, her tone flat.
"Temporarily," Julian repeated defensively.
The midwife didn't argue. She simply lowered herself beside Clara, careful not to pull her upright, while tissue paper rasped beneath her palm and the edge of the tablecloth brushed her sleeve.
May you like
"Don’t move yet," she whispered gently to Clara, her hand resting reassuringly on Clara’s shoulder.
Then, Sister Beatrice reached beneath the gift table and lifted the heavy hanging cloth.
