Chapter 5 - The Hospital Visit
At ten o'clock that morning, the door to my recovery room opened again.
This time, it wasn't Marcus Vance or Arthur Hale.
It was Vincent.
He looked disheveled. His usually immaculate custom suit was wrinkled at the lapels, his tie was slightly askew, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He rushed into the room, holding a half-hearted bouquet of expensive white lilies, wearing the exact expression of frantic, loving concern he had practiced in front of mirrors his entire life.
“Claire!” he gasped, dropping the flowers onto the foot of the bed and rushing forward to grab my hands. “Oh, thank God. I came as soon as I heard. The phone reception at the restaurant district was dead, and then the car battery died, and—claire, are you okay? Where’s the baby?”
I let him hold my hands.
They were warm, manicured, and utterly empty.
I looked up at him, letting my face remain entirely mask-like—neither angry, nor crying, just terrifyingly blank.
“He’s in the NICU, Vincent,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Vincent squeezed my fingers, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief that was entirely fake. “Thank God. I was terrified. I was out all night trying to secure emergency capital for one of the downtown locations, and when I heard... Claire, I am so sorry I wasn't here.”
“You were busy,” I said softly.
“Business, honey. You know how volatile the hospitality market is right now,” he lied smoothly, never breaking eye contact. “I promise you, I’m going to make this up to you. Whatever you need.”
“I know you will, Vincent,” I replied, giving his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze in return. “By the way... how is Vanessa’s dog?”
Vincent froze.
The color drained entirely from his face. His fingers went rigid in my grip, his pupils dilating as the blood rushed out of his cheeks.
“W-what?” he stammered, his voice cracking on the syllable. “What did you say?”
I smiled—a small, cold, terrifyingly polite smile that didn't reach my eyes.
“Romeo,” I said, tilting my head. “How is her French bulldog? I hear veterinary bills in Lincoln Park are terribly expensive these days.”
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Vincent stared down at me, the mask of the charming, confident restaurant mogul shattering completely, leaving behind a terrified stranger who suddenly realized the game was over before he even knew it had started.
Before Vincent could stammer out his first lie, the door swung open wide, and two uniformed Chicago police officers walked into the room, flanked by Marcus Vance holding a thick stack of federal subpoena documents.
