Chapter 2 - The Medical Room and the Wire
At Denver Health Medical Center, the bright fluorescent lights of the trauma bay felt mercifully clean compared to the suffocating luxury of the Vance mansion.
Seven stitches were required to close the deep laceration above my left ear.
The doctor handed me an ice pack, a small bottle of pain medication, and a detailed medical report documenting the blunt-force trauma, the laceration, and a mild concussion.
Standing in the corner of the room, holding two paper cups of black coffee, was Natalie.
"Here," she said gently, handing me a cup. "You're going to need the caffeine. The Vance family machine is already moving."
I took a sip of the bitter coffee, leaning my head back against the vinyl headrest. "Why did you stand up for me, Natalie? You know Arthur will cut your husband, Julian, off from the family trust if you fight them."
Natalie let out a dry, bitter laugh. She sat on the rolling stool beside my bed, pulling out her phone.
"Julian is a coward, Valerie," she said quietly. "He sat at that table tonight and watched his brother bleed you, and he didn't raise a finger. But I have two daughters. I'd rather raise them in a studio apartment than teach them that women are supposed to bleed for men with money."
She tapped her phone screen and handed it to me.
On the screen was an incoming text message from Victoria to the entire family group chat:
“Valerie is mentally unstable. She suffered an episode at dinner and attacked Diego. We are securing a top criminal attorney to file emergency restraining orders and partition the Capitol Hill property before she liquidates it. No one speaks to the press or the police.”
I stared at the text. A cold, sharp smile touched my lips.
"They think this is a property dispute," I murmured.
"They think you’re going to fold because you’re alone," Natalie corrected. "They don't know about your brother."
My eyes locked onto hers.
My older brother, Nathan, was not an architect. He was a senior partner at Vance, Sterling & Croft—the most ruthless forensic real estate litigation firm in the Mountain West.
I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. My screen was cracked, but the touch functionality still worked.
I dialed Nathan’s direct line.
He answered on the first ring, despite it being eleven o'clock at night.
"Valerie," Nathan's voice came through the speaker, crisp, sharp, and instantly alert. "I just got a notification from the Denver Police Department arrest log. Why is Diego Vance booked in the downtown detention facility for Felony Aggravated Assault?"
"Because he smashed a porcelain plate over my head at his mother's dinner table, Nathan," I said, my voice dropping into a register of pure stone. "And because his mother thinks she’s moving into my Capitol Hill condo next month."
There was three seconds of total silence on the line.
When Nathan spoke again, his voice was so cold it could have frozen boiling water.
"Are you at Denver Health?"
May you like
"Yes."
"Stay in that room," Nathan commanded. "I’m bringing three civil process servers, two digital forensics specialists, and an emergency motion for a temporary restraining order. By sunrise, Diego Vance won't be able to step within five hundred yards of your shadow."
