Chapter 2 - The Emergency Ward
The drive to the hospital was a blur of red lights and Gwen’s shallow breathing.
I had wrapped her in my coat,
the expensive wool absorbing the smell of the kitchen floor,
a smell I would never forget.
She was so light,
frighteningly light for a woman who was eight months pregnant.
Every time we hit a bump,
she winced,
clutching her side with a hand that was nothing but skin and bone.
I called my assistant and told him to cancel the bid,
to cancel the meetings,
and to call my head of security.
"Tell him to lock down the house,"
I barked into the phone,
"and don't let anyone leave with a single item."
When we arrived at the emergency entrance,
I didn't wait for a wheelchair.
I carried her in,
screaming for a doctor,
ignoring the stares of the other patients.
They took her away from me almost immediately,
her small hand slipping from mine as the double doors swung shut.
I sat in the waiting room,
my hands covered in the grease from the floor,
my mind reeling.
Two hours passed,
each second feeling like an eternity in purgatory.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lemon cleaner,
a sharp contrast to the greasy feast I had just witnessed.
Finally,
Dr. Aris,
our long-time family physician,
emerged.
He didn't look at me with his usual professional smile.
His face was set in a mask of grim fury.
"Lucas,"
he said,
leading me into a private office.
"I've known you a long time,
but I have never seen anything like this."
He opened a file on his tablet,
showing me the initial scans.
"Gwen is suffering from stage three anemia,"
he began,
his voice trembling with suppressed emotion.
"She is severely malnourished,
bordering on starvation."
"Her body has started to cannibalize its own muscle tissue to keep the baby alive."
"The baby,"
he continued,
"is in fetal distress."
"The heart rate is fluctuating because it isn't getting enough nutrients."
Then he turned the screen to show me photos of her body.
There were bruises on her shins,
circular marks that looked like they came from the heels of shoes.
"These aren't from a fall,
Lucas."
"These are defensive wounds."
"And the marks on her back...
those are from being forced to stay in a crouched position for hours."
The room began to spin.
I had been providing thousands of dollars every week for "vitamins and organic meals."
I had trusted my mother to be the guardian of my legacy.
Instead,
she had been the architect of a slow,
calculated murder.
"There's more,"
Dr. Aris said,
hesitating.
"We found high levels of a mild sedative in her system."
"It wasn't enough to kill her,
but enough to keep her docile."
"Enough to keep her from calling you."
I leaned back against the wall,
the air leaving my lungs.
My mother hadn't just been cruel;
she had been a chemist of misery.
I walked out of the office,
not to Gwen’s room,
but to the parking lot.
I needed to see the truth for myself,
the parts of the house I had never bothered to check.
May you like
The war was no longer about a folder or a bid.
It was about the survival of my family.
