Chapter 7 - The Cold Corridor
The surgical intensive care unit was dead quiet, save for the hum of the HEPA filtration units and the rhythmic pinging of Natalie’s vitals.
Natalie sat propped up in a specialized pneumatic bed, her face clean of tears, an extra blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A fresh IV line was securely anchored in her right arm, protected by an acrylic guard. Dr. Harris had given her a mild sedative that didn't cross the placenta, stabilizing her blood pressure back down to safe thresholds.
At the foot of her bed sat Thomas Vance.
He was holding a pocketknife, carefully peeling the skin from a crisp green apple, letting the single continuous ribbon of green peel drop into a paper napkin. He looked as peaceful as if he were sitting on the back porch of his modest brick ranch house in Bridgeport.
The heavy double doors of the unit banged open.
Grant Mercer strode down the hallway, ignoring the nurses who tried to stop him. His silk tie was loosened, his bespoke Italian wool blazer was rumpled, and the polished veneer of his executive charm had cracked into ragged lines of sweat and fury.
“Natalie!” Grant barked, storming through the door. “What the hell is this circus? Do you have any idea what your lunatic father just did to our market cap? Every trading desk in New York is freezing our pre-market options!”
Thomas didn't look up from his apple. He sliced a thin wedge, popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly.
Natalie looked at her husband. For eight years, she had loved this man. She had ironed his shirts when they were broke; she had listened to him rehearse his pitches until two in the morning; she had forgiven his late nights, his cold dismissals, his growing cruelty, telling herself it was just the pressure of the corporate climb.
Looking at him now, she felt no anger. She felt only a strange, hollow pity.
“Vanessa was here, Grant,” Natalie said softly.
Grant didn't flinch. He didn't ask how she was. He didn't ask about the baby.
“Vanessa made a mistake,” Grant snapped, waving his hand as if brushing away a fly. “She acted out of turn. She’s high-strung. I’ll deal with Vanessa later. But right now, you need to tell your father to rescind the default notice with Chase before the Asian markets open, or Mercer Dynamics is wiped out by dawn!”
“She tried to kill our daughter, Grant,” Natalie whispered.
Grant stopped. A flicker of something dark crossed his eyes—not horror, but the realization that his leverage was slipping through his fingers.
“Don't be dramatic,” Grant said, lowering his voice, leaning over the foot of the bed. “Vanessa wouldn't do that. She went there to settle the asset division cleanly so you wouldn't have to stress yourself with court battles. She was looking out for the company’s stability. For *our* future.”
“Our future?” Natalie let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You bought her a four-thousand-dollar diamond bracelet an hour before she came here with a pair of shears to cut my emergency cord.”
Grant turned toward Thomas, his teeth clenched so hard the muscles in his jaw bulged. “You old bastard. You think you can blackmail me? I run this company. I have the board in my pocket. If you tank the stock, Natalie loses her child support, her trust funds, her house—everything! You’ll destroy your own daughter to satisfy your petty blue-collar pride!”
Thomas finished his apple. He closed the blade of his pocketknife with a soft, clean *click*.
He stood up.
Though he was sixty-two years old, Thomas Vance was broad-shouldered and thick-chested, hardened by four decades of turning steel on manual lathes. When he stood at his full height, he towered over Grant Mercer by two full inches.
May you like
“Grant,” Thomas said softly. “You never were very good at math.”
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