Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Verdict
While the digital reckoning played out against Isabella, Dr. Elizabeth Vance was busy performing a comprehensive ultrasound scan on Khloe’s abdomen. The room’s primary focus snapped back to the bed as the rhythmic, galloping sound of the baby’s heartbeat filled the air once more.
Khloe lay with her eyes closed, her hand resting over Marcus’s as he returned to her side, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles.
"How is she, Doctor?" Marcus asked, his voice uncharacteristically rough around the edges.
Dr. Vance wiped a clear gel wand across Khloe’s stomach, staring intently at the grayscale monitor displaying the squirming, safe form of the twenty-eight-week-old fetus. She let out a long, audible sigh of relief and smiled warmly.
"The baby is remarkably resilient, Mr. and Mrs. Thorne," Dr. Vance announced. "The amniotic fluid levels are normal, and there's no sign of placental abruption. However, Mrs. Thorne has experienced severe muscular trauma to her lower back and right flank, accompanied by high-stress uterine contractions. She is going to need strict bed rest for the next two weeks, and we are going to keep her under observation here in the medical ward overnight just to ensure those contractions subside completely."
Khloe let out a shaky breath, finally allowing herself to relax against the pillows. "Thank God."
"You pushed your luck running up those stairs alone, kiddo," Uncle Arthur said gently, walking over to the side of the bed and squeezing Khloe’s other hand. "I told security to clear the hallway. Your mother-in-law and the rest of the gala guests downstairs are starting to wonder why half the VIP wing is blocked off by hospital security."
At the mention of his mother, a heavy shadow crossed Marcus’s face. Eleanor Thorne—a woman who viewed high society as a chessboard and her son’s marriage to a woman from a modest background as an unforgivable tactical error—was currently hosting downstairs. It was Eleanor who had invited Isabella to the gala in the first place, orchestrating their constant proximity under the guise of high-society networking.
"My mother invited her tonight," Marcus said, his voice cold as stone. "She knew exactly what kind of game Isabella was playing."
"Let's not worry about Eleanor right now," Khloe murmured, gripping Marcus's hand tighter. "I just... I want to rest, Marcus. Can we make sure Isabella is actually escorted off the premises?"
"Already handled," Uncle Arthur chimed in, nodding toward the door where the two security guards were currently grabbing Isabella by her arms, hoisting her up despite her frantic, silent protests. They dragged her out into the hallway, the crimson train of her designer gown sweeping across the dirty floor like a discarded rag.
Elaine Parker, who had stood quietly in the corner watching the entire drama unfold with wide eyes, stepped forward nervously. "Mr. Thorne, Mrs. Thorne... I am so, so sorry. I had no idea. If I had known what Mrs. Rossi was planning—"
"You didn't know, Elaine," Khloe said kindly, offering her a reassuring nod. "Thank you for staying. Please, go back downstairs and tell the guests that I'm feeling unwell and have retired early. Don't mention the incident. Let them think whatever they want for tonight."
"Yes, Mrs. Thorne. Right away," Elaine said gratefully, slipping out of the room.
As the heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing the private suite against the outside world, Marcus leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to Khloe’s forehead.
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"I am so sorry, Khloe," he whispered against her skin. "I brought these people into our lives. I let my mother's obsession with status blind me to what was happening right under our roof."
"You didn't know either, Marcus," Khloe whispered back, opening her eyes to look up at him. "But you know now. And that changes everything."
