Chapter 3 - The Broken Fortress
"Shut your mouth, Sarah," I said gently, kneeling beside her bed as I took her cold, paper-thin hand in mine. "Thirty years ago, you divided your bread with me when my stomach was twisted in knots. Today, my money pays for your life. Don't you dare talk about the bill."
Within twelve minutes, the quiet, decaying hallway of the apartment building echoed with the rapid, heavy footsteps of paramedics. Dr. Harrison himself arrived with the team, carrying state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment into the dim apartment.
Lily shrank back against the wall, her small hand clutching the worn fabric of her stuffed bunny, her eyes wide with terror as white-coated strangers surrounded her mother.
I walked over to the little girl, knelt down, and reached for the old hand-crank sewing machine on the table.
"Lily," I whispered, setting the metal beast down gently on the floor. "Your shift is over. You don't have to sew another stitch."
"Is Mommy going to sleep like Daddy did?" she asked, her voice small, fragile, and terrified.
My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a fist of iron. "No, Lily. I promise you, on my life, she is coming back."
Dr. Harrison stepped back from the bed, his expression grim as he leaned toward me. "Severe pneumonia compounded by advanced exhaustion and untreated systemic infection, Nathan. If we had been two days later, her body would have given up. She’s going straight to the ICU at St. Jude’s."
As the paramedics rolled Sarah out on a gurney, wrapped in heated blankets, I picked up Lily, holding her small, light body against my chest. She buried her face into my neck, her tiny fingers digging into the fabric of my thousand-dollar tailored coat, soaking it with silent, trembling tears.
Before leaving the apartment, my private head of security, Frank, stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the tiny room.
"Boss," Frank said, pulling a heavy steel lock from his pocket. "I’m securing the premises. But while the medics were stabilization Mrs. Vance, I checked the building’s utility records and lease files."
"And?" I asked, my voice cold.
"The lease on 4B isn't registered under your parent real estate firm, Nathan," Frank said, his brow furrowing. "It’s managed by a subsidiary company owned by Marcus Vance—Sarah’s late husband’s estranged brother. And according to the ledger, the rent wasn't three months overdue. It was paid in full six weeks ago by an anonymous cashier's check."
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I froze near the doorway, looking down at the sleeping child in my arms.
"Someone was falsifying eviction notices to throw a dying woman and a seven-year-old child into the street," I hissed, a dangerous, dark rage igniting in my chest. "Find out who generated that fake notice, Frank. Every single name."
