Chapter 3 - The Waiting Room Revelation
The private waiting room on the fifth floor smelled of stale upholstery and old coffee. Dr. Thomas—a kind, exhausted-looking specialist with graying temples—had checked me twenty minutes earlier, confirmed that I was dilated to four centimeters, and gently ordered me to stay put while he sorted out the room transfer.
"You shouldn't be standing, Camila," Dr. Thomas had said, resting his hand on my shoulder. "Thirty-five weeks is manageable, but your blood pressure is spiking. Let's keep you calm."
Calm was a luxury I had locked in a box and thrown out the window.
The heavy door of the waiting room pushed open.
It wasn't Samuel.
It was Arthur Vance.
He looked different than he did at the charity galas where we occasionally exchanged pleasantries. His expensive wool overcoat was soaked from the rain, his tie was pulled down, and his eyes were bloodshot. In his right hand, he held his phone, the screen still glowing with the audio file I had sent him three hours ago.
He didn't look at the chairs. He looked straight at me, standing by the rain-streaked window.
"Is it true?" Arthur’s voice was dangerously quiet.
"Listen to the background of the recording, Arthur," I said, turning to face him. "The air vent in Samuel's office sounds like a freight train. You can hear it every time he opens his desk drawer."
Arthur walked across the room, his leather shoes clicking against the tile. He stopped a few feet away, his chest rising and falling heavily. He didn't look angry in the cinematic way men in movies get—he looked hollowed out, as if someone had reached inside his ribs and taken out the structural framework.
"She told me she was working late at the clinic," Arthur said, staring down at his wedding ring. He twisted it once, twice, before dropping his hand. "Three nights a week. Every week for six months. She bought a new wardrobe for 'hospital administrative conferences.'"
"Samuel was buying tea," I replied bitterly. "The organic kind. He said it helped with my stress."
A heavy silence fell between us, broken only by the hum of the HVAC unit overhead. We were two strangers bonded by the exact same betrayal, standing in a sterile hospital room while our respective spouses played doctor behind closed doors.
"She thinks she's untouchable," Arthur muttered, his voice dropping into something cold and sharp. "Samuel has hospital board protection because his father endowed the new wing. But Jessica... Jessica thinks her husband is a corporate drone who only cares about billable hours."
He looked up, meeting my eyes with a sudden, frightening clarity.
"What do you want to do, Camila?"
"I want my son born safely," I said, feeling another contraction begin to grip my lower back, forcing me to lean against the windowsill. "And then I want to take everything Samuel owns down to the studs. Every asset, every clinic share, every piece of the life he built while pretending to care about mine."
Arthur held my gaze for a long moment. A slow, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.
May you like
"Good," Arthur said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a slim leather folio. "Because I brought a forensic accountant's initial audit of Samuel's secondary accounts. And you might want to see what he’s been funding with your household income."
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