Chapter 2 - Tactical Retreat to Hopkins
Ten miles away, in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit of Johns Hopkins Children’s Center, the world was silent save for the rhythmic, soothing tones of medical monitors.
Clara sat in a specialized reclining wheelchair beside three incubators arranged in a neat semicircle. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup, and deep purple shadows marked the skin beneath her eyes. Her abdominal incision throbbed with a dull, persistent ache every time she shifted her weight, but she refused to take the heavy narcotics the doctors offered. She wanted her mind sharp. She needed every cell of her brain functioning at absolute maximum capacity.
To her left, tiny Ava slept beneath a warm blue light, her tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically with the assist of a nasal cannula. In the middle, Noah was wrapped in a specialized warming nest, his heart rate finally stabilizing after three precarious days. To her right, Miles—the smallest of the three, weighing barely two and a half pounds— lay under a clear plastic dome, his minuscule fingers curled into tight little fists.
Daniel Hartwell walked into the private room quietly, carrying two paper cups of herbal tea. He set one down on the small table beside Clara’s chair and placed a warm, broad hand on her shoulder.
"Arthur just called," Daniel said softly in Vietnamese, his voice steady and grounding. "Nó đã bị đuổi khỏi bệnh viện St. Matthew. Lệnh cấm tiếp cận đã được giao tận tay." (He was kicked out of St. Matthew’s. The restraining order was delivered.)
Clara didn't look up from the monitors. Her eyes remained locked on Ava’s oxygen saturation levels: 98%.
"Did he make a scene?" she asked, her voice raspy from the intubation tube she had endured forty-eight hours prior.
"A massive one," Daniel replied. "Shouting, threatening lawsuits, claiming you were out of your mind. He was dragged out by security and had to take a rideshare because the Mercedes was towed."
A cold, bitter smile touched Clara’s lips, disappearing almost instantly. "He always hated taking rideshares. He said it was beneath the dignity of an executive."
"He’s going to realize very quickly what is beneath him," Daniel said, taking a seat beside her. "The forensic accounting team from Deloitte started their audit at six this morning. By noon, they found three separate off-shore accounts Tyler set up over the last eighteen months, all registered in the Cayman Islands under shell companies linked to Cassandra Vale’s event management firm."
Clara finally turned her head to look at her father. Her eyes, usually soft and warm, were cold and sharp as polished obsidian.
"How much did he take?" she asked.
"So far? About 4.2 million dollars," Daniel revealed. "He was funneling small amounts through fake consulting invoices, vendor retainer fees, and inflated logistics expenses. He thought because you were focused on your high-risk pregnancy during the last six months, no one would check the line items."
Clara let out a low, breathy exhale. Seven years. She had spent seven years lying beside that man. She had cooked for him, comforted him when his early business ventures failed, given him the COO position at her family's company, and defended him against board members who argued he lacked the experience for executive leadership. She had believed his smooth promises of devotion, his claims that his long working hours were all for "their future family."
And while I was carrying his three children, bleeding in a hospital bed, he was using my mother's money to finance his mistress's business launch.
"Is the emergency board meeting still scheduled for tomorrow?" Clara asked, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders.
"Yes," Daniel said. "Ten o'clock. But Clara, you just had major surgery. You lost two liters of blood four days ago. You don't have to be there in person. Arthur and I can handle the board."
"No," Clara said, her voice dropping into a firm, unyielding tone that made Daniel pause. She looked at her three babies in their incubators. "Tyler spent three years subtlely telling the board that I was just a figurehead, that I didn't have the mental stamina for corporate leadership, that my pregnancy made me 'emotionally volatile.' If I sit in that boardroom via video link from a hospital room, he will use it to paint me as an invalid."
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She reached out, gently pressing her fingertips against the glass of Miles's incubator. The tiny baby stirred, touching the inside of the glass right where her finger rested.
"I will be in that boardroom tomorrow morning," Clara declared. "I will sit at the head of that table. And I will cut Tyler Vance out of my life, my family, and my company with surgical precision."
