Chapter 2 - The Sound of Silence
When I opened my eyes, the white lights were gone.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the amber glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds and the steady, rhythmic pulse of an IV drip. The digital clock on the bedside table read 4:14 AM.
Four hours.
I turned my head slowly on the pillow. My throat felt like sandpaper.
The room was empty.
No Vincent pacing the floor with feigned anxiety. No flowers from his business associates trying to curry favor with the Hale empire. Just me, the monitor, and the quiet, crushing reality of a phone sitting face down on the bedside table.
The door clicked open softly.
Nurse Kelly stepped in, her rubber-soled shoes making no sound against the linoleum. She stopped when she saw my eyes open, a gentle, sad smile touching her lips.
“You’re awake,” she murmured, checking the IV bag. “How are you feeling?”
“My son?” My voice was a dry rasp.
Kelly’s hands paused on the plastic tubing. She didn't look at me right away, and that second of hesitation told me everything I needed to know.
“He’s in the neonatal intensive care unit,” Kelly said softly, choosing her words with agonizing care. “He’s stable for now, Claire. But he’s very small, and his lungs are immature. The next forty-eight hours are critical.”
“And my husband?”
Kelly looked down at her clipboard. “No one by that name has checked in at the front desk since surgery ended. Dr. Lawson left a note for you, though.”
She handed me a small folded card.
I unfolded it with fingers that felt like lead.
Claire, you did everything right tonight. Rest. He’s a fighter. – R. Lawson.
I folded the card back up and set it on the nightstand.
“Can I see him?” I whispered.
“Not yet. Not until your vitals stabilize.”
“Get my phone,” I said.
Kelly blinked. “Claire, you need to sleep—”
“Get my phone, Kelly. Please.”
Reluctantly, she picked up the device and handed it to me.
I pressed the screen. No missed calls from Vincent. No texts. Just a weather notification and an automated email from one of the restaurant supply vendors.
Seventy-three days of gathering evidence, of watching him lie with smooth, practiced ease, of memorizing the subtle ticks in his jaw when he was hiding an offshore wire transfer—it all crystallized into a single, unbreakable resolve.
I didn't cry.
Tears were for women who believed things could be fixed.
I unlocked the screen, tapped into my encrypted folder, and hit speed dial.
Not Vincent.
May you like
Arthur Hale.
---
