Chapter 3 - The Cold War in Room 304
The sunrise on Tuesday brought no relief, only a shift from covert pressure to open warfare.
By 8:00 AM, the cardiac floor looked like an armed encampment. Two of Callum’s most trusted men—brutally efficient enforcers named Vance and Miller—flanked the double doors of Room 304, while three of Malcolm’s corporate lawyers occupied the waiting room, leafing through thick leather portfolios with grim determination.
I pushed my medication cart down the corridor, feeling every pair of eyes track my movement.
When I entered Patrick Ror’s room, the old man was sitting up slightly against his pillows, looking remarkably alert despite the pale pallor of his skin. Callum stood by the window, his phone pressed to his ear, listening intently to whoever was speaking on the other end.
“...and if the board attempts to vote before Friday, block it,” Callum was saying coldly. He caught sight of me in the doorway, ended the call with a swift swipe of his thumb, and pocketed the device.
“Morning, Audrey,” Patrick rasped, a weak but genuine smile touching his wrinkled lips. He looked far more like a retired patriarch than a cartel kingpin in his floral-print hospital gown.
“Morning, Mr. Ror,” I said, checking the IV drip rate and tapping the digital screen of the heart monitor. “Your numbers are improving. Which means I’m going to make your life miserable by cutting your sodium intake in half.”
Patrick groaned, casting a pleading look toward his son. “Callum, tell her this is abuse. I survived thirty years in shipping logistics and two turf wars in the harbor, only to be starved to death by a nurse with wire-rimmed glasses.”
“She’s the boss, Dad,” Callum said, walking over to stand beside the bed. His eyes flicked to mine, a ghost of amusement in his expression. “If she says no sodium, you eat cardboard.”
Before Patrick could retort, the door swung open without a knock.
Malcolm Ror strode into the room, trailing two of his legal associates and a notarized folder as thick as a phone book. His silver hair was impeccably styled, but his face was twisted into an ugly, triumphant smirk.
“Father,” Malcolm announced loudly, ignoring me entirely. “The emergency board meeting has been convened. With your current medical incapacitation, Article 4 of the Ror Holding Trust dictates an immediate transfer of executive voting rights to the senior vice-president—myself.”
Patrick’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, ancient fire. He tried to sit up, but a sharp wince of pain crossed his face, his monitor beeping a sudden, sharp warning.
Callum didn't shout. He didn't rush forward. He simply stepped between his uncle and the bed, his presence instantly dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees.
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“Get out, Malcolm,” Callum said softly.
“Step aside, boy,” Malcolm sneered, holding up the folder. “This is a legal necessity. Your father is dying, and the company cannot wait for a funeral.”
