Chapter 3 - THE TENTH FLOOR FORTRESS
The private elevator reserved for the hospital's executive wing required a heavy brass keycard that one of the guards tapped against the sensor before the doors glided open with absolute silence.
We rode up to the tenth floor—a private, restricted level that the hospital board usually reserved for visiting dignitaries, major donors, or politicians recovering from elective procedures. Tonight, it had been entirely commandeered.
When the doors opened, the atmosphere was jarringly different from the chaotic, fluorescent-lit wards below. The lighting was subdued, cast from recessed wall sconces that gave the hallways the hushed, carpeted reverence of a luxury hotel penthouse.
Every few yards, another man in a dark suit stood motionless against the wall, his eyes tracking our movement with clinical vigilance.
My escort led me down the plush hallway to double mahogany doors marked with a discreet brass plaque: Suite 1001.
"He's inside," the guard said, stepping aside and placing his hand on the brass handle. "Remember, Doctor—keep it brief. His vitals are stable, but he's lost a considerable amount of blood."
"I am well aware of my patient's medical status," I retorted coldly, snatching my clipboard tighter against my chest like a shield. "You don't need to teach me how to treat a gunshot wound."
He pushed the door open, and I stepped past him into the suite.
The room was vast, dominated by a king-sized adjustable bed positioned to afford a sweeping view of the glittering Seattle skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The Space Needle rose in the distance like a needle piercing the ink-black velvet of the predawn sky.
Ethan was propped up slightly against a stack of feather pillows. The hospital gown he wore was open at the collar, revealing the thick white surgical dressings taped tightly across his left chest. An IV line ran from his forearm to an automated drip stand, and a nasal cannula delivered oxygen to keep his saturations stable.
Despite the pale, washed-out color of his skin and the purple bruising blossoming across his shoulder, he looked every bit the corporate emperor the magazines described.
When the door clicked shut behind me, his dark eyes slowly opened.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence in the room stretched between us, thick with six years of unsaid words, broken promises, and midnight tears.
"Claire," he finally said.
His voice was rough, gravelly from the endotracheal tube and the massive trauma to his chest, but the cadence of it—that deep, familiar baritone—sent a sharp, traitorous shiver straight down my spine.
"Don't," I said, holding up a hand as I stepped toward the bed, keeping my professional distance. "Let's dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Blackwood. I am not here for a social call. I am the attending physician on rotation, and I was told my patient was attempting to violate post-operative protocols."
Ethan’s gaze locked onto mine. Those dark brown eyes—the exact same eyes that looked back at me every morning when Mia asked me why Daddy didn't live with us—held a look of such raw, agonizing intensity that it made my breath hitch.
"You're angry," he whispered, a faint, bitter ghost of a smile touching his pale lips. "I don't blame you."
"Angry?" A harsh, humorless laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. I took another step forward, the professional mask cracking as six years of exhaustion, fury, and sleepless nights boiled over. "You think I'm angry, Ethan? You vanished without a trace, leaving a Post-it note on the kitchen counter like a teenager running away from chores, and you call it angry?"
"Claire, please—"
"No, you listen to me," I hissed, stepping right up to the side of the bed, my fingers gripping the metal railing so hard my knuckles turned white. "You broke into my life, you made me believe in a future that didn't exist, and then you ran back to your billion-dollar empire because things got complicated! You left me alone with no money, no support, and no explanation! Do you have any idea what it was like trying to finish my residency while throwing up every morning from morning sickness? Do you know what it’s like to look into a child's eyes when she asks where her father is, and have to lie to her every single day?"
Ethan flinched. The color drained even further from his face, and his hand twitched against the crisp white sheets, his fingers curling into a fist.
"A child," he whispered, the words catching in his throat. His chest heaved, and the heart monitor beside the bed emitted a sharp, warning beep as his heart rate spiked. "What... what did you just say?"
I froze, realizing what had slipped out in the heat of my anger.
I had vowed never to tell him. For six years, I had protected my daughter from the toxic, violent world of Blackwood Holdings. I had built a safe, stable, beautiful life for Mia with my own two hands, refusing to let a man who abandoned us have any claim over her heart or her future.
And now, in a fit of bitter rage, I had handed him the one piece of information that would shatter our fragile, quiet world.
May you like
Ethan tried to push himself up on his elbows, groaning as a sharp spasm of pain racked his freshly sutured chest.
"Claire," he gasped, his eyes wild and desperate, locking onto mine with an intensity that bordered on manic. "What did you just say about a child? Who... who are you talking about?"
