Chapter 2 - The Red Pen on the Paperwork
Grant reached for the bag, his large fingers trembling violently. "Lauren, stop this. You’re hypoxic. You went without oxygen for hours, and you aren't thinking clearly."
"I have never seen anything clearer in my life," I said. My voice was eerily calm, devoid of the tears he expected.
"Captain Whitaker?" A sharp voice cut through the doorway. An OBGYN in floral scrubs walked in, scanning a tablet.
"I’m Dr. Chen," she said briskly, barely glancing at Grant. "Mrs. Whitaker, your daughter’s heart rate is stabilizing, but we are seeing signs of placental insufficiency from prolonged carbon monoxide exposure."
Grant immediately stepped forward, asserting himself. "I'm Captain Whitaker, her husband. What does that mean for the baby?"
Dr. Chen paused and looked at him over her tortoiseshell spectacles. "It means your wife needs absolute rest, zero stress, and forty-eight hours of hyperbaric observation. Any spike in her cortisol could trigger pre-term labor."
"I can take care of her," Grant insisted, his voice rising with desperate authority. "I’m taking family medical leave starting today."
"No, you aren't," I said.
The doctor looked between us, her experienced eyes catching the glacial rift dividing the room.
"I need visitors cleared," Dr. Chen said firmly. "The patient's systolic pressure just jumped to one-sixty. Out, Captain."
"Lauren, please," Grant begged, taking a step closer, his eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Let me explain what happened. She grabbed my neck, I couldn't just drop her—"
"Get out, Grant," I said, closing my eyes. "Or I will have security escort you to the lobby."
He lingered for ten agonizing seconds. Finally, the heavy hospital door clicked shut behind him.
I let out a shuddering breath that rattled deep in my ribs. I pulled my phone from my purse on the nightstand, plugging it into the wall charger.
The screen lit up with forty-seven missed calls and hundreds of text messages. The local news had already picked up the story of the Halstead Tower hoistway fire.
A Chicago Tribune notification flashed across the glass: 'Hero Rescue Captain Saves Former Socialite Sadie Mercer From High-Rise Elevator Inferno.'
I clicked the link with a shaking thumb. There was a full-color photograph taken by a freelance stringer on the sidewalk.
The photo showed Grant running out through the smoky lobby doors into the flashing red lights of the fire trucks. Cradled in his arms, her arms wrapped around his neck, was Sadie.
Her face was buried in the hollow of his shoulder. His jaw was set in fierce, desperate protection, his eyes wild with terror for the woman in his arms.
Nowhere in the article did it mention his pregnant wife, trapped three floors below in the dark.
Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated with an incoming text from an unknown number.
'Lauren, it's Sadie. I am so terribly sorry about how things looked. Grant was just doing his job. Please don't be mad at him. He was only trying to keep me from dying.'
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred into smears of blue light. She wasn't apologizing; she was marking her territory.
I deleted the message and opened my contact list. I scrolled past the family group chats until I reached a name I hadn't called in three years.
Julian Vance. My older brother, and senior partner at Vance & Sterling Family Law.
He answered on the second ring. "Lauren? Are you okay? Mom told me you were in the Halstead building!"
"Julian," I whispered, pressing the phone against my ear. "I need you to bring your notary to Northwestern Memorial."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Julian knew me better than anyone in the world.
May you like
"What did he do?" Julian asked, his voice hardening into steel.
"He chose her," I answered. "Draft the papers."
