Chapter 5 - The Hospital Suite
The Lincoln pulled into the ambulance bay of St. Ambrose Mercy Hospital, bypassing the public entrance entirely. Marcus led Wren through a set of secure double doors and up a private elevator to the top-floor executive suites.
Wren’s footsteps echoed nervously against the polished tile hallway. "Why are we at a hospital? Am I sick?"
"You're fine, Miss Ashby," Marcus said calmly, stopping outside door 714. "The man inside wants to speak with you. He’s been waiting a long time."
Before Wren could ask who "he" was, Marcus pushed the door open and motioned for her to enter.
The room was spacious, dimly lit by a single floor lamp casting warm amber light across the walls. In the center of the room sat a hospital bed, its mattress elevated. Propped up against the pillows was a man in his late thirties with dark, wavy hair, pale skin, and sharp, calculating eyes. An IV pole stood beside him, but his gaze was entirely fixed on the doorway.
And sitting right beside the bed, resting its heavy chin on the mattress edge, was a lean gray shepherd mix with a torn left ear.
Wren stopped dead in her tracks. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Patch?" she whispered, her eyes widening in disbelief.
The dog lifted its head at the sound of her voice, its tail giving a slow, rhythmic thump against the floor. It trotted over to her immediately, stopping just inches away, sniffing her hands and letting out a soft, joyful whine before leaning its entire body against her shins.
"He remembers you," a deep, gravelly voice said from the bed.
Wren slowly lifted her gaze from the dog to the man in the hospital bed. Fear and confusion warred inside her chest. "Who are you? Why am I here? What does this dog have to do with me?"
"My name is Julian Vance," the man said, his voice steady despite the obvious pain etched into his features. "And I'm the reason you spent the last seven years of your life rotting in Millbrook Correctional Facility."
The words hit Wren like a physical blow. She staggered backward a step, her hands flying to her mouth. "You... you're the one? You framed me?"
"Not directly," Julian said, holding up a hand as if to ward off her rising panic. "I didn't know your name until the night you were arrested. But the men who killed Marisol Cade were my enemies—and the corrupt detective who planted those keys in your locker was on my payroll. I could have stopped it, Wren. I could have cleared your name on day one. And I didn't."
Wren’s vision blurred with sudden, hot tears of rage and disbelief. Seven years. Seven years of cold cells, sleepless nights, stolen youth, and crushing despair—all because a man sitting in a luxury hospital bed decided her life was an acceptable collateral cost.
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"You bastard," she hissed, her voice trembling with a fury so intense it terrified her. "You absolute bastard! Do you have any idea what they did to me in there? Do you know what it's like to lose everything—every friend, every chance at a future—while you sat in your mansions playing god?"
"I know exactly what it cost you," Julian said softly, his dark eyes unwavering under her wrath. "And I know that no apology I offer will ever buy back those seven years. But I brought you here tonight because the debt is finally coming due. And you deserve to know the truth about why that dog never left your side."
