Chapter 6 - The Emergency Ward
The sterile, blinding white lights of the VIP trauma suite at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center hummed quietly above me.
Machines beeped in a rhythmic, reassuring cadence. An IV drip fed warm fluids into my veins, and the sharp, tearing cramps in my abdomen had dulled into a deep, heavy ache under the influence of powerful muscle relaxants.
"Her vitals are stabilizing, General," a chief obstetrician said, stepping away from the monitors to address my father, who was sitting in a stiff plastic chair right beside my bed, holding my hand in his large, warm grip. "The placental abruption was caught just in time. If we had delayed by even ten minutes... well, we wouldn't be looking at a viable pregnancy. But she’s strong. The baby’s heartbeat is steady and strong."
A wave of profound, overwhelming relief washed over me, and silent tears streamed down my cheeks. I squeezed my father's hand. "Thank you, Dad."
"Don't thank me, sweetheart," Dad said softly, kissing my knuckles. "Blame myself for letting you play house with a pack of jackals for two years. When you told me you wanted to make it on your own in corporate law, I agreed to step back. I never agreed to let some ungrateful parasite lay a hand on my daughter."
"I just... I didn't want people to look at me and see General Vance’s daughter," I whispered, my voice thick with exhaustion. "I wanted to know I could stand on my own two feet."
"You did stand on your own two feet," Dad replied firmly, his eyes burning with fierce pride. "You endured twelve-hour shifts, pregnancy complications, and domestic abuse without once asking for help. That takes a kind of courage I respect more than anything in uniform. But now, it’s time to let family handle the cleanup."
Just then, the heavy oak door of the VIP suite clicked open.
A tall man in a crisp charcoal suit walked in, carrying a thick leather briefcase. It was Marcus Vance, my cousin—though unlike me, Marcus had embraced the family legacy, serving as the lead counsel for the Department of Justice’s Special Investigations Unit.
"Uncle Arthur," Marcus nodded respectfully, before turning his sharp, analytical eyes toward me. "Cousin. How are you feeling?"
"I'll live, Marcus," I managed a weak smile. "What’s the status on Elmwood Terrace?"
May you like
Marcus smirked, opening his briefcase and pulling out a stack of stamped legal documents. "As of ten minutes ago, the house, the bank accounts, the luxury cars, and every single asset owned by Carter and Eleanor Vance have been seized under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, expanded to include domestic terrorism against a federal family member."
Marcus laid the papers across the foot of my bed. "Carter is currently sitting in a federal holding cell in Alexandria, weeping because his public defender won't even return his calls. Eleanor is being evicted by federal marshals as we speak. They have exactly forty-eight hours to vacate the premises with whatever they can fit into a single suitcase."
