Chapter 1 - The Shattered Glass
The sterile, fluorescent hum of St. Gabriel Medical Center’s trauma ward felt like a physical weight pressing down on my temples. The smell of antiseptic, copper, and cold panic hung heavy in the air. I, Adrian Cross, a man who had forced the most ruthless syndicates in New York to bow to his will, stood paralyzed.
My hand, which had never trembled while holding a weapon or signing away a rival’s empire, was frozen against the cold glass of Trauma Room One.
Inside, Claire was slipping away.
Her dark hair, once a soft, fragrant silk I loved to bury my face in, was matted with dried blood. The heart monitor’s erratic, high-pitched beep was a frantic countdown. Thirty-two weeks. The words echoed in the empty caverns of my chest like a gunshot. Eight months ago, I had thrown her out of my penthouse into a torrential downpour, calling her a parasite, a rat, an FBI plant. I had let Savannah’s carefully orchestrated "proof"—the forged bank transfers, the doctored audio files, the whispered warnings—poison my mind until I saw the woman who loved me as my greatest enemy.
"Adrian, seriously, this is embarrassing," Savannah hissed, her fingers digging into the expensive cashmere of my sleeve. Her manicured nails, painted a sharp, bloody red, looked like claws. "She’s a federal rat, Adrian. If she's pregnant, it’s probably some agent’s bastard she’s trying to pin on you for a payout. Let’s go. The doctors in Room Four are waiting for your signature for Marcus’s surgery."
I didn't look at her. If I looked at Savannah in that moment, I knew the monster sleeping inside me would wake up, and I would choke the life out of her right here on the polished linoleum floor.
"Get your hands off me," I said. My voice wasn't loud. It was a low, vibrating growl that made the security guard standing ten feet away instantly reach for his holster.
Savannah recoiled, her perfect, surgically enhanced face twisting into a mask of ugly indignation. "Adrian! I am your girlfriend! You can't speak to me—"
"Miles!" I roared, not taking my eyes off the glass.
My head of security, Miles Archer, materialized from the shadows of the corridor within a second. His face was grim, his eyes darting between me, the screaming monitors in Claire's room, and the pale, trembling Savannah.
"Take her," I commanded, pointing a single, rigid finger at Savannah. "Take her to the holding room at the warehouse. If she tries to make a call, if she even looks at her phone, break her fingers."
Savannah’s eyes went wide with genuine terror. She knew I didn't make idle threats. The "Devil of Manhattan" didn't play by the rules of polite society. "Adrian, no! You can't do this! My father—"
"Your father exists because I allow him to breathe, Savannah," I whispered, finally turning my head to glare at her. The sheer, icy vacuum in my eyes made her voice die in her throat. "Miles. Remove her."
Miles grabbed Savannah’s arm with a grip of iron. She didn't scream—she knew better than to make a scene in a hospital crawling with my men—but her heels dragged against the floor as she was led away, her diamonds catching the harsh light one last time.
The door to Trauma Room One swung open, and a flustered nurse rushed out, her scrubs splattered with red. She tried to push past me, but I grabbed her shoulder.
"What is her status?" I demanded.
"Sir, you can't be here, this is a restricted—"
"I am Adrian Cross," I said, leaning down so she could see the absolute gravity in my face. "I own the pavilion this wing is built on. I pay the salary of every board member in this building. Tell me what is happening to Claire Bennett."
The nurse swallowed hard, her eyes darting to my dark suit, my heavy gold signet ring, and the three armed guards who had silently flanked me. "She... she has severe abdominal trauma, Mr. Cross. Internal bleeding from what looks like a blunt-force assault. Her blood pressure is crashing, and the baby is in distress. We need to perform an emergency C-section right now, but her heart is too weak. If we put her under, she might not wake up."
"And if you don't?"
"They both die," the nurse whispered.
My chest tightened so hard I could barely draw breath. Blunt-force assault. Someone had beaten her. A pregnant woman. My Claire.
"Save them," I said, my voice cracking, revealing the raw, bleeding wound where my heart used to be. "If either of them dies, I will tear this hospital down brick by brick. Do you understand me? Call the chief of surgery. Call whoever you need. Just save my family."
The nurse nodded frantically and bolted back into the room.
May you like
Through the glass, I watched as they placed the oxygen mask over Claire's pale face. Her eyes drifted shut, the long dark lashes casting shadows on her bruised cheeks. I pressed my forehead against the cold pane, a silent, desperate prayer tearing through my dark soul.
Live, Claire. Please, just live. Let me fix what I broke.
