Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Past
Adrian crossed the distance between them in three long strides, his heavy wool coat sweeping behind him like the wings of a dark angel. He stopped two feet away, his chest heaving, his dark eyes frantically scanning her bruised face, the bandage on her brow, and the shaking hands gripping the blanket.
“Where is he?” Adrian demanded, his voice thick and rough.
“Operating Room Three,” Claire replied. Her voice was barely a rasp, stripped of all inflection. “Internal bleeding. His spleen ruptured on impact when a semi ran a red light on Lake Shore Drive.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The words tore out of him before he could filter them.
Claire let out a short, hollow laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. She finally looked up, her gaze pinning him in place.
“Tell you what, Adrian? That you were going to be a father?”
“Yes!”
“And what would you have done?” She stood up, swaying slightly before steadying herself against the metal armrest. Despite her injuries, her spine was rigid. “Would you have canceled your corporate acquisitions? Would you have delayed a hostile takeover to attend an ultrasound? Or would you have done what you did every single day of our marriage—looked at me with those cold, calculating eyes and treated my body like another inconvenient asset on your balance sheet?”
Adrian flinched as if she had struck him across the face.
“I loved you,” he muttered, the confession tasting alien on his tongue.
“No, Adrian,” she whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes, tracking clean paths through the dust and dried blood on her cheeks. “You didn’t love me. You possessed me. You wanted a quiet, elegant ornament that wouldn’t disrupt your schedule or challenge your authority. When I realized I was pregnant, three weeks after I filed for divorce, I knew that if I told you, you wouldn’t see a child—you’d see a custody battle. You would have locked me in a golden cage with twenty-four-hour guards to ensure your bloodline stayed under your control.”
“I am a Vale,” he said automatically, an old reflex kicking in.
“Exactly,” Claire spat, her voice cracking with suppressed agony. “And right now, behind those double doors, your son is dying on a table while you stand here worrying about your pride. So don't you dare come in here acting like a grieving father when you couldn't even be bothered to answer my phone calls.”
Before Adrian could answer, the heavy double doors of the surgical suite swung open.
Dr. Rebecca Halpern stepped out, wearing blue scrubs stained a faint pink, her mask pulled down around her neck. She looked exhausted, her eyes scanning the hallway before landing on Claire, and then shifting to the towering, immaculately dressed man standing beside her.
Claire dropped the blanket, her hands flying to her mouth. “Dr. Halpern? Is he—”
“We stopped the internal bleeding,” the surgeon said, cutting straight to the point with the ruthless efficiency of someone who spent her life fighting death. “His spleen was unsalvageable, so we removed it. He’s stable for the moment, but the next twelve hours are critical. He lost a significant amount of blood, and his little body is under severe shock.”
A ragged breath escaped Claire’s throat, and her knees buckled.
Adrian moved with preternatural speed, catching her by the waist before she hit the floor. She didn’t push him away. She simply collapsed against his chest, her hands bunching into the fabric of his coat as she wept into the dark wool.
Adrian held her tightly, one hand resting on the back of his head, his eyes fixed on the doctor.
“Can I see him?” Adrian asked, his voice dead flat, carrying an underlying note of absolute, unyielding command.
May you like
Dr. Halpern hesitated, looking from Claire to the armed security guards standing sentinel down the hall, and finally into Adrian’s dark, fathomless eyes.
“PICU, Room 4,” the doctor said quietly. “Only one of you at a time for now. He’s hooked up to ventilators, Mr. Vale. Don’t scare him when he wakes.”
