Chapter 4 - The Clean RoomThe ride to Dr. Evelyn Vance’s private clinic was a blur of neon streetlights, the rhythmic thumping of the ambulance tires, and the agonizing rise and fall of uterine contractions.
Every contraction felt like a tightening band of iron, squeezing the breath from my lungs. The paramedic beside me, a calm woman named Sarah, kept a constant watch on the portable fetal monitor strapped to my abdomen.
“Heart rates are holding, Mara,” Sarah said, her voice a soothing balm against my terror. “Baby A is at 145, Baby B is at 152. Strong. Resilient. Just like their mom.”
“I can’t lose them,” I whispered, staring at the ceiling of the ambulance. “They’re all I have left.”
“You’re not going to lose them,” she promised, adjusting the IV line she had expertly started in my left arm. “We’re five minutes away.”
When the ambulance pulled into the secure, underground bay of the Vance Women’s Health Institute, the doors flew open to reveal Dr. Evelyn Vance herself. She didn't look like a high-society doctor tonight; she wore blue scrubs, a surgical mask hanging around her neck, and her eyes were fierce with determination.
Evelyn was Adrian’s cousin, but she hated him with a passion that rivaled my own. She had seen how his father had destroyed his mother, and she knew the venom that ran in the Vance men's veins.
“Get her to Suite 4,” Evelyn ordered, walking briskly alongside my stretcher as we wheeled through the pristine, private corridors. “Start a magnesium sulfate drip immediately to slow these contractions. I want a full ultrasound setup and a neuro consult for that head injury.”
Within minutes, I was transferred to a plush, high-tech birthing bed. The room was private, quiet, and sterile, a stark contrast to the loud, chaotic party I had just escaped.
Evelyn immediately prepped the ultrasound machine, applying the warm gel to my stomach. I held my breath, watching her face as the black-and-white image flickered to life on the screen.
For a long, agonizing moment, there was only silence. Then, a steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump filled the room.
I let out a sob of pure relief.
“There’s Baby A,” Evelyn said, pointing to the screen. “And there is Baby B. Active, but the cervix is indeed thinning. Mara, you have a small subchorionic hemorrhage—a bleed behind the placenta. It was likely caused by the trauma of being dragged. The magnesium should help stabilize the uterus, but you are on absolute, strict hospital bed rest. If you stand up, you risk a full abruption.”
“I won’t move,” I promised, my voice cracking. “I’ll stay as still as a stone.”
“Good.” Evelyn wiped the gel from my stomach and pulled the blanket over me. She then turned her attention to the purple bruise forming on my forehead and the scrapes on my ankles. Her face darkened with a cold, protective rage. “Did Adrian do this?”
“He dragged me by my feet,” I said, my voice deadpan once more, devoid of the tears that had leaked earlier. “Vanessa watched and cheered. He kicked me in the back.”
Evelyn’s knuckles turned white as she clenched her fists. “That absolute monster. I will personally write the medical report for the police, Mara. We can have him arrested tonight.”
“No,” I said, reaching out to touch her arm. “Not yet.”
Evelyn frowned. “Why? He assaulted you, Mara! He put your life and your babies' lives in danger!”
“Because a police arrest is too quick. It allows him to play the victim of a 'domestic misunderstanding' or hire a team of PR crisis managers to spin the narrative,” I explained, my voice cold, sharp, and calculated. “I want him completely stripped of his armor first. I want him to realize he is utterly powerless before the law even touches him. By the time the police knock on his door, he won't have the money to pay for a lawyer, let alone a PR team.”
Evelyn stared at me for a long moment, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across her face. “You really are your father’s daughter, aren't you? Marcus told me you authorized the takeover.”
“Aegis Capital is dead,” I said, looking down at my cracked phone, which was now lighting up with missed calls.
Twenty missed calls from Adrian.
Ten from Carter, his COO.
May you like
Five from the managing director of his prime brokerage.
“The party,” I whispered, a dark satisfaction blooming in my chest, “must be getting interesting.”
