Chapter 5 - The Hospital and the Revelation
The warehouse floor became a blur of motion.
The man lunged forward with the brass pipe, aiming a brutal arc toward my ribs. Years of high-end private boxing training kicked in automatically. I ducked beneath the swing, drove my palm upward into his jaw with a sickening crack, and swept his legs out from under him.
The second man charged with a heavy steel wrench. I sidestepped, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back with bone-crunching force, and slammed him face-first into the metal locker door until he slumped unconscious to the floor.
I stood over them, breathing heavily, my knuckles bleeding, the manila folder clutched tightly in my left hand.
I didn't call the police. I called Marcus.
"Clean up the warehouse," I told him coldly as I got back into my SUV. "And find out which loan shark or predatory medical collection agency was shaking down Emma."
An hour later, Marcus called back with a hospital name and a room number.
St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, Queens. Admitted under an alias three days ago. Critical condition.
I didn't go back to the penthouse. I drove straight to Queens at 100 miles per hour, ignoring red lights and speed cameras, the medical records burning a hole in the passenger seat.
When I arrived at St. Jude’s, the front desk nurses tried to block me. But they didn't reckon with the terrifying, unhinged authority of Jason Miller wearing a blood-stained shirt and an expression of pure desperation. I flashed my American Express Black Card and my corporate ID, threatening to buy the entire hospital system before sunrise if they didn't give me her room number.
Room 412.
The ICU wing was dead silent.
I pushed the door open slowly.
The room smelled of antiseptic, oxygen tanks, and quiet despair. In the center of the bed lay Emma.
She looked heartbreakingly fragile. Her skin was translucent, her dark hair splayed across the white pillow, and her chest barely rose and fell beneath the thin hospital gown. Tubes and monitors beeped softly beside her.
She looked twenty years older than the radiant woman in the locket.
I dropped the manila folder, fell to my knees beside her bedside, and gently took her cold, limp hand in mine.
"Emma," I choked out, a tear finally breaking free and tracking down my cheek. "Emma, I'm here."
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes.
For a second, the cloudy hazel depths cleared, and she looked right at me.
"Jason..." she whispered, her voice like dry paper. "You... you found the box."
"Why didn't you call me?" I pressed my forehead against the back of her hand, sobbing quietly. "Why did you carry this alone? Five years... Emma, we could have had five more years."
"Your... your father," she breathed, coughing weakly. "His lawyers... they threatened to take the babies away if I ever contacted you... said you were building an empire... said I was a parasite... I was so scared, Jason..."
"My father is dead," I said fiercely, looking into her eyes with absolute conviction. "And his lawyers don't exist anymore. Nothing matters except you and our boys. Liam and Lucas are safe. They're at my penthouse. They asked for their mommy."
A single tear slipped down Emma’s cheek.
"Take care of them..." she whispered, her grip on my fingers growing terrifyingly weak. "Promise me... Jason... promise me you'll love them... the way I couldn't... because I was too tired..."
"I promise," I wept, kissing her knuckles over and over again. "I promise, Emma. But you're going to help me. You're going to wake up tomorrow and tell them yourself. Do you hear me? You're not leaving me again."
The heart monitor beside the bed let out a long, agonizing flatline tone.
May you like
The line on the screen went straight.
"No," I whispered, the word tearing out of my chest like shrapnel. "No, no, no! Doctor! Get in here! GET IN HERE!"
