Chapter 6 - The Monitor’s Pulse
“Claire!”
Grant’s voice penetrated the sudden roar in my ears, but he was on the other side of the iron gate, useless and distant.
Thomas was beside me in an instant, his arm sliding under my shoulders, catching my weight before I hit the marble floor. Behind him, Rebecca rushed down the stairs, her phone already pressed to her ear.
“Lenox Hill,” Rebecca barked into the receiver. “Obstetrics emergency. We’re on our way. Notify Dr. Sterling immediately.”
“Claire! Open the gate!” Grant banged frantically against the metal. “Let me help you! Claire!”
I looked up through the pain, breathing through my teeth as another contraction gripped my abdomen like a steel vice. My waters hadn't broken, but the stress of the past twelve hours had triggered something violent and premature.
“Close the door, Thomas,” I whispered, beads of cold sweat breaking across my forehead.
“Claire, no!” Grant screamed.
Thomas didn't hesitate. With one smooth, deliberate motion, the heavy mahogany door swung shut, cutting off Grant’s frantic cries and the sound of the rain. The heavy deadbolt clicked into place with finality.
Ten minutes later, the private ambulance Rebecca kept on retainer pulled away from the curb. Through the tinted rear glass, I saw Grant standing beneath the streetlight in the downpour, his head in his hands, utterly abandoned on the sidewalk.
At Lenox Hill, the chaos of the night dissolved into the sterile efficiency of a private maternity suite.
Monitors beeped rhythmically. Cool gel was spread over my stomach. The steady, galloping thrum of my daughter’s heartbeat filled the room—rapid, resilient, unbroken.
“Blood pressure is elevated, but the fetal distress markers are negative,” Dr. Sterling said, adjusting the monitors. She was fifty-five, sharp-eyed, and had delivered half the babies in my social circle. She didn't ask about Fashion Week. She didn't ask about the headlines already lighting up Twitter. “You’re in early labor, Claire. Thirty-four weeks. We’re giving you medication to stop the contractions, but you need absolute, total bed rest. No stress. No visitors. No corporate warfare.”
“Understood,” I breathed, the medication already sending a warm, heavy numbness through my veins.
Rebecca stood in the corner of the room, her laptop open on the rolling tray table. Her expression was grave.
“Grant is in the lobby,” she said quietly after the doctor stepped out. “He tried to use his name to get up to the maternity floor. Security turned him away, but his lawyers are already filing an emergency motion for visitation rights and access to your medical status.”
“What does Arthur say about the board?” I asked, ignoring the ache in my lower back.
“The board convened an informal session at midnight,” Rebecca replied. “When Grant failed to show up, Arthur presented the preliminary findings. The board voted seven to two to suspend Grant’s executive authority indefinitely. They’ve named Arthur interim CEO.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the galloping beat of the monitor.
Grant Holloway had spent six years making me feel invisible. He had treated our marriage like a decorative framing device for his ambition, assuming that because I did not shout, I did not possess teeth.
Now, he was sitting in a hospital lobby downstairs, stripped of his title, his home, his mistress, and his empire, begging security guards for permission to enter a room he had spent months trying to escape.
“Rebecca,” I whispered.
“Yes, Claire?”
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“Have Arthur freeze his personal credit cards issued through the corporate trust. Leave him with an allowance of five hundred dollars a week. Just enough for groceries and subway fare.”
Rebecca looked at me, a glimmer of respect flashing in her dark eyes. “Consider it done.”
