Chapter 4 - The St. Jude’s Emergency Ward
The sterile, blinding lights of St. Jude’s private maternity wing rushed past in a dizzying blur of white coats, stainless steel gurneys, and frantic medical jargon.
“Contractions are two minutes apart and strengthening,” a sharp-faced obstetrician announced, wheeling my gurney down the brightly lit corridor toward delivery room four. “Get her prepped for immediate epidural evaluation. Given the maternal stress indicators, we’re monitoring fetal heart rate closely.”
My father marched right beside the gurney, his hand locked tightly around my fingers, his expression a mask of grim, concentrated focus. He had already called our private medical concierge before we even left the elevator, ensuring that the chief of obstetrics was waiting at the emergency bay doors the second our vehicle pulled up.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” my father repeated, his voice a steady anchor against the rising tide of pain and panic. “Breathe through it, Evelyn. Just breathe.”
As the nurses transferred me from the gurney to the high-tech delivery bed, the heavy double doors of the labor suite pushed open.
A nurse stepped inside, looking apologetic and slightly flustered. “Mr. Vale, I’m sorry, but there’s a visitor downstairs at the security desk demanding access. He’s... well, he’s claiming to be the patient’s husband.”
My father’s face instantly hardened into a stone wall.
“Tell security that Mr. Grayson Whitmore is trespassing,” my father snapped, not breaking eye contact with me. “If he attempts to bypass the lobby, have him physically removed and thrown out onto the street. If he touches the elevators, I want a federal restraining order filed before he hits the ground floor.”
“Understood, sir,” the nurse said, turning quickly to relay the message.
I let out a shaky breath, gripping my father’s hand tighter as another contraction crested, hot and crushing across my lower back.
“He’s not going to stop, Dad,” I panted, closing my eyes as the monitor beside the bed beeped with an accelerated rhythm. “He’s lost everything. He’s going to try to claw his way back through the baby.”
“He won't get within a mile of this hospital, Evelyn,” my father promised, his voice carrying an absolute, terrifying certainty. “Grayson is finished. His corporate partners have already initiated emergency ousting procedures based on the financial audit I sent them ten minutes ago. By sunrise, he won't even have a bank account, let alone legal standing to challenge anything.”
The obstetrician stepped between my legs, snapping sterile latex gloves over her hands.
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“Alright, Evelyn,” the doctor said, looking up with a calm, reassuring smile. “The stress is real, but your baby is ready to meet the world. On the next contraction, I need you to push with everything you have.”
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