Chapter 3
The next two hours were a blur of monitors, IV lines, and doctors with tight, serious faces.
They gave Emily magnesium to stop the contractions.
Steroids to help the baby’s lungs develop faster, just in case.
They did an ultrasound, moving the wand slowly over her belly, checking for bleeding, checking the baby’s heartbeat.
Strong.
Fast.
Perfect.
Raymond never left her side.
He sat in the hard plastic chair next to the bed, holding her hand, answering every question the doctors asked, making sure every nurse who came in knew exactly who she was.
When the doctor finally said the baby was stable and the contractions had stopped, Emily let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding for years.
“Thank God,” Raymond whispered, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
A soft knock on the door.
Torres, the security head, stuck his head in.
“Sir? Harold and Margaret Whitmore are here. They’re demanding to see you. And Emily.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened.
Harold Whitmore.
Preston’s father.
The man who’d married into money, then spent forty years acting like he’d earned it.
Margaret.
Preston’s mother.
The woman who’d called Emily “that poor Ohio girl” at her own bridal shower.
“Send them in,” Raymond said.
He stood up, moving to stand at the foot of Emily’s bed, his body angled like a shield between her and the door.
The door opened.
Harold Whitmore stormed in first.
Sixty-five, paunchy, face purple with rage, custom suit rumpled like he’d dressed in the car.
Margaret followed, slim, perfectly coiffed, diamond studs in her ears, her face a mask of cold fury.
Preston came in behind them, head down, eyes red.
“Raymond, what the hell is the meaning of this?” Harold barked, slamming his hand on the wall by the door. “You have my son’s mistress arrested? You throw Preston out of his own hospital? Have you lost your mind?”
Raymond didn’t raise his voice.
He just stared at Harold until the older man shifted uncomfortably.
“Your son’s mistress kicked my thirty-two-week pregnant niece in the stomach in a public hallway,” he said. “Your son stood there and watched. Then he told her she was embarrassing him. What part of that is unclear to you, Harold?”
Margaret spoke up, her voice sharp as broken glass.
“That girl provoked her. She’s always been jealous. She trapped Preston with that baby, everyone knows it—”
Emily flinched.
Raymond’s hand curled into a fist at his side.
“Get out,” he said quietly.
Harold laughed, loud and fake.
“Get out? This is our hospital! We built this place—”
“You built nothing,” Raymond said. “My sister, Clara—Emily’s mother—put up every dime of the Saint Claire fortune to save this hospital when you were about to declare bankruptcy in 1986. She let you put your name on the wall because she was a good woman who believed in second chances. You’ve spent forty years acting like it was yours.”
Harold’s face went white.
“That’s—that’s not how it was,” he sputtered. “Clara wanted me to run it—”
“Clara wanted you to help people,” Raymond snapped. “Instead you used the hospital’s charity fund to pay for your country club membership. You siphoned money from the pediatric wing to buy Preston his first Porsche. You’ve been robbing this place blind for decades, and I have every bank record to prove it.”
The room went silent.
Preston looked at his father, shock written all over his face.
“Dad?” he said. “Is that true?”
Harold didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Margaret’s perfect mask cracked.
“Raymond,” she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “Don’t do this. We’re family. Clara would have wanted—”
“Don’t you dare say my sister’s name,” Raymond growled. “You stood by and let Harold treat her like dirt for years. You laughed at her behind her back. You let your son treat Emily exactly the same way. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Emily had been quiet, listening.
Now she spoke up.
Her voice was small, but everyone in the room turned to look at her.
“Did you know?” she asked Preston.
He looked at her, tears in his eyes.
“Know what, baby? About the money? I swear I didn’t—”
“Not the money,” she said. “Did you know Vanessa was pregnant?”
Preston hesitated.
Just a split second.
But Emily saw it.
“Preston,” she said.
“I found out yesterday,” he whispered. “I was going to tell you. I was going to fix it. I was going to make her get rid of it—”
Emily closed her eyes.
She felt like someone had reached into her chest and ripped her heart out.
All those memories.
The tulips.
The ultrasound.
The promise to her father.
All lies.
Every single one.
“Get out,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Emily, please—”
“Get out!” she screamed, picking up the water cup from her nightstand and throwing it at him.
It hit the wall next to his head, shattering into a hundred pieces.
Harold grabbed Preston’s arm, yanking him toward the door.
“Come on,” he snarled. “She’s not worth it. We’ll fight this. We’ll take the hospital back. We’ll take everything.”
Margaret lingered for a second, looking at Emily.
For half a second, Emily thought she saw regret in her eyes.
Then it was gone.
“You made your choice,” Margaret said coldly. “Now live with it.”
They left.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Raymond sat back down next to the bed, taking Emily’s hand again.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “Whatever they throw at us, we’ll beat it. I promise.”
Emily nodded, tears streaming down her face.
But deep down, she knew.
May you like
The Whitmores weren’t going to go quietly.
And this war was just getting started.
