Chapter 3 - The Price of Disrespect
By nine o'clock the following morning, the private maternal suite on the top floor of Northwestern Memorial Hospital smelled of fresh lilies and rain.
Dr. Vance, a silver-haired specialist who normally attended to European royalty and governors' wives, applied the warm ultrasound gel with trembling hands while Donovan stood beside the examination table like an armed sentry. He hadn't changed out of his black suit, and his hand remained locked around Maeve’s fingers, his thumb stroking her pulse point with steady rhythm.
The monitor flickered to life.
The soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a tiny heartbeat filled the room, loud and unmistakable through the speakers.
Maeve’s breath caught in her throat. Tears immediately spilled over her lashes. "Oh, God..."
On the screen, a tiny profile appeared—a perfectly formed nose, delicate hands curled against a chest, and two tiny feet kicking against the amniotic sac.
"Everything is flawless, Mr. Hayes," Dr. Vance said, adjusting the contrast with visible relief. "Heart rate is 148 beats per minute. Amniotic fluid levels are ideal. Fetal growth is right on the fiftieth percentile."
"What is it?" Donovan asked, his voice strained, husky with a reverence he couldn't disguise.
"Well," Dr. Vance smiled warmly, turning the screen slightly toward Donovan, "unless my thirty years of obstetrics fail me... you have a son on the way."
Donovan didn't speak. He reached down with his free hand and pressed his knuckles against his mouth, his shoulders dropping two inches as an invisible, unbearable weight lifted from his chest. He looked at Maeve, his eyes dark with an intensity that made her chest tighten.
"A boy," he whispered.
"A boy," Maeve echoed, letting out a laugh that was half-sob.
Before the doctor could print the thermal images, the heavy double doors of the private wing swung open.
Manny stood in the archway, holding a leather tablet. He caught Donovan’s eye and gave a subtle, tight nod. "Boss. Arthur Sloan is downstairs in the main lobby. He brought his son. He’s been waiting forty minutes."
Donovan’s face hardened instantly. The tenderness melted away like frost under hot water. He leaned down, kissed Maeve softly on the forehead, and tucked the paper sheet around her legs.
"Get dressed, little bird," he murmured. "I have some trash to take out."
Five minutes later, Donovan stepped into the executive conference room adjacent to the hospital’s board offices.
Arthur Sloan, a man of sixty with thinning gray hair and a three-thousand-dollar Brioni suit, was pacing frantically across the carpet. Beside him sat Derek, looking like he hadn't slept in thirty hours. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands were trembling in his lap, and his right cheek was purplish-black from where he had caught the edge of a table the previous afternoon.
"Donovan," Arthur said, rushing forward with both hands outstretched, his voice cracking with desperation. "Thank you for seeing us. Please, you have to call off the city inspectors. We have five hundred concrete pours scheduled on the River Point tower! If the site stays frozen through the weekend, the union penalty fees will bankrupt my development arm!"
Donovan didn't take Arthur’s hand. He walked to the head of the conference table and sat down, resting his elbows on the polished wood.
"Arthur," Donovan said calmly. "You’ve known me for twelve years. Have you ever known me to make a mistake in business?"
"No, never! You're a fair man, Donovan!" Arthur stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. "That’s why I don't understand! My son told me there was some minor altercation in a café... some misunderstanding over an ex-girlfriend—"
"A misunderstanding?" Donovan’s voice dropped into a terrifyingly soft cadence.
He leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward Derek with a flick of his fingers. "Derek. Tell your father what you said to the mother of my child."
Arthur froze, slowly turning his head toward his son. "What?"
Derek shrank into his leather chair, tears of pure, unadulterated terror welling in his eyes. "Dad... I... I didn't know who she was with. She was just Maeve! She worked at a boutique catering firm! I was just teasing her—"
"He pointed at her belly," Donovan narrated, each word falling like an iron anvil, "and laughed in front of twenty people. He told her she had ruined her life. He called her single, broke, and pathetic. And then he told her he felt sorry for her."
Arthur’s face drained of every ounce of blood. He stared at his son with the horrified realization of a man watching his life’s work being tied to a dynamite stick.
"You did what?" Arthur whispered.
"Dad, I didn't mean—"
SMACK.
The sound of Arthur’s open palm striking Derek’s face echoed off the glass walls like a gunshot. Derek was knocked out of his chair, sprawling onto the carpet, clutching his jaw, sobbing hysterically.
"You idiot!" Arthur roared, kicking Derek’s leg in blind fury. "You arrogant, brainless little parasite! I gave you everything! I put you on the board! And you insult Donovan Hayes’s family?!"
Arthur turned back to Donovan, dropping onto one knee beside the conference table, his dignity completely shattered. "Donovan, please. He’s an idiot. I’ll fire him today. I’ll strip him of his shares. I’ll send him to our London branch tonight! Just don't destroy the company. I’m begging you."
Donovan stood up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket with slow, deliberate precision.
May you like
"The River Point site stays frozen, Arthur," Donovan said coldly, walking toward the exit. "You will surrender twenty-five percent of the commercial equity in that tower to a trust in Maeve Carter’s name by five o'clock today. If the paperwork isn't on my desk by sunset, I don't just bankrupt your company—I’ll make sure neither you nor your worthless son ever work in this hemisphere again."
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked out of the room, leaving the broken screams of the Sloan family behind him.
