Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Testimony
The heavy bolt cutters borrowed from the hospital maintenance team made a sharp, echoing crack as they severed the steel chain from my ankle. The moment the pressure released, a wave of nauseating relief washed over me, though the raw, chafed skin beneath the iron cuff stung like fire where the metal had bitten into my flesh.
Nurse Clara immediately stepped in with a sterile dressing kit, gently cleaning the wound while casting a watchful eye toward the door where the two security guards now stood like stone statues, blocking Julian and Eleanor from making a run for it.
"You're going to need an X-ray to make sure there's no hairline fracture from where the chain wrenched against your previous injury," Clara said softly, her professional demeanor wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. "And we need to run a full panel to monitor the baby’s vitals after the high-stress adrenaline spike you just endured."
"The baby is fine," I whispered, resting a trembling hand over my slightly rounded stomach. Beneath the thin fabric of the hospital gown, life was still pulsing, steady and resilient. Despite everything they had tried to do, despite the drugs they had threatened to pump into my IV, my child was holding on. "I can feel it."
"Good," Dad muttered, kneeling beside the bed and taking my uninjured hand in his. His calloused fingers were warm, but they trembled slightly. "I am so sorry, sweetheart. I was so blind. When Julian told me you had checked yourself in because of a nervous breakdown over the wedding arrangements... I trusted him. I actually trusted him."
"He's a narcissist, Mr. Vance," Clara said without looking up as she secured the gauze bandage with medical tape. "They don't look like monsters when they introduce themselves. They look like the most charming, competent men in the room. That's how they get the keys to the kingdom before you even realize the locks have been changed."
Before Dad could reply, the door swung open again, and a tall, silver-haired man in a crisp white lab coat strode into the room, flanked by two junior residents. It was Dr. Sterling, the chief of obstetrics and gynecology at St. Jude’s—and the actual attending physician assigned to my chart, who had conveniently been scheduled off-site that morning while Julian tried to execute his coup.
"What in God's name is going on in my VIP ward?" Dr. Sterling demanded, his eyes sweeping over the chaos: Julian slumped in the chair, Eleanor glaring daggers from the corner, Marcus packing legal briefs into his briefcase, and security guarding the perimeter.
"Doctor Sterling," Clara stood up immediately, handing the chief a secondary tablet containing the digital logs. "We have a catastrophic security and medical protocol breach. Patient Victoria Vance was admitted under a fraudulent psychiatric override. Her husband, Julian Vance, forged your digital sign-off to authorize chemical and physical restraints, and attempted to coerce a forced medical termination without patient consent."
Dr. Sterling’s face turned an alarming shade of dark crimson. He snatched the tablet, his eyes scanning the logs, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the unauthorized digital stamp bearing his own medical license number.
"Get out," Dr. Sterling whispered, his voice shaking with suppressed fury as he turned his blazing gaze toward Julian.
Julian didn't move. He sat frozen, staring at the floor like a broken automaton.
"Did you hear me?" Dr. Sterling roared, stepping right up to Julian's chair. "You used my credentials to authorize a forced termination on a viable twenty-week pregnancy in my hospital? On my ward? You absolute, psychopathic piece of trash! Security, physically remove these two individuals from the premises immediately before I lose my license and decide to break every bone in this man's hands myself!"
The two security guards didn't wait for a second invitation. They moved in with practiced efficiency, hauling Julian up by his arms. Julian let out a pathetic, animalistic whine, his expensive Italian loafers dragging across the polished floor as they hauled him toward the door.
"Mom! Help me! Do something!" Julian screamed, thrashing weakly.
Eleanor tried to block their path, clutching her designer bag to her chest like a shield. "You can't touch us! My family built this wing! We donated the MRI machine in the east wing! You'll be sued into oblivion—"
"Your donations were funded by embezzled trust assets from the Vance estate," Marcus Vance chimed in smoothly without looking up from his tablet, sliding a federal subpoena out of his briefcase and holding it out toward her. "And as of nine minutes ago, federal marshals have already frozen your personal accounts under RICO asset-seizure laws. Have a wonderful walk down to the precinct, Eleanor. I hear the orange jumpsuits match your handbag quite nicely."
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The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off Eleanor’s shrill, panicked shrieks.
The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy, thick with the residue of a nightmare, but for the first time in three days, the air tasted clean.
