Chapter 4 - The Tables Turn
The sterile, blinding lights of the private medical wing inside Alvin’s Dallas compound hummed softly, a stark contrast to the violent chaos of the mountain retreat just two hours prior.
I lay in a high-tech recovery bed, hooked up to intravenous warm saline drips and fetal monitors that hummed with a steady, reassuring rhythm. The sharp, rapid beats of my baby’s heartbeat echoed softly through the room—strong, resilient, and alive.
Sitting in a leather armchair beside my bed was my father. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and his face was etched with a profound exhaustion, though his eyes still burned with an unquenchable fire.
"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" Alvin asked softly, standing up to brush a strand of hair gently from my forehead.
"Warm," I whispered, my voice still slightly raspy from the cold. I looked down at my stomach, letting out a shaky sigh of relief as I felt a reassuring kick against my palm. "The baby... is the baby okay?"
"The baby is a fighter, just like her mother," Alvin smiled gently, though his jaw tightened instantly as he added, "And the medical team confirmed that another twenty minutes out there would have been catastrophic. You owe your life—and our child's life—to that telemetry grid."
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors at the end of the private corridor swung open.
Marcus stepped into the room, flanked by two armed guards. Between them, stumbling and looking thoroughly disheveled, was Diego. His expensive cashmere coat was stained with mud, his hair was disheveled, and the arrogant, untouchable smirk that had defined his demeanor for years was completely gone, replaced by a pale, trembling dread.
Diego caught sight of my father sitting beside the bed, and his knees nearly buckled.
"Alvin... sir," Diego stammered, trying desperately to regain some fraction of his composure as he straightened his collar. "There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. Elena... tell your father I was just trying to—to help her calm down, it was a marital dispute gone slightly wrong—"
Alvin didn't raise his voice. He didn't shout, throw punches, or curse. He simply stood up from his chair, buttoned his suit jacket with deliberate slowness, and walked slowly toward the foot of the bed where Diego stood trapped between the guards.
"A misunderstanding," Alvin repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Yes! Exactly!" Diego forced a nervous laugh, looking frantically around the room. "Families argue, Alvin. You know how women in their third trimester get—emotional, irrational, prone to exaggeration. She slipped near the outdoor shower, and I—"
CRACK.
Alvin’s fist connected squarely with Diego’s jaw with the force of a falling anvil.
Diego staggered backward, crashing hard against the medical cart and sending sterile trays and bottles clattering across the floor. He caught himself on his hands and knees, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the polished linoleum, his eyes wide with shock and terror.
"You touch my daughter, you try to steal her inheritance, you lock her in freezing temperatures to die while she carries my grandchild," Alvin said, his voice trembling with contained fury as he stood over him. "And you think you can stand in my home and lie to my face?"
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Diego wiped the blood from his lip, his expression twisting into a mix of pain and desperate defiance. "You can't do this! We're legally married! I have rights to the estate, rights to the shares, rights to—"
"You have nothing," Alvin interrupted coldly, pulling a thick manila folder from beneath his arm and tossing it onto the floor right in front of Diego’s hands. "Read it."
