Chapter 2 - Code Triage
The smell of hospital antiseptic always reminded me of the cold, fluorescent corridors where my father took his last breaths four years ago. Now, running alongside the gurney into St. Jude's Trauma Center, that same sterile stench felt like suffocation.
"BP is ninety over fifty-five and dropping," the lead paramedic barked as the double doors banged open. "Thirteen weeks pregnant. Blunt force trauma to the facial area, signs of abdominal guarding. Possible placental abruption."
"Irene, stay with me," I pleaded, holding her cold, bruised hand as the medical team maneuvered her down the corridor. "Look at me, sweetheart. Keep your eyes on me."
Her swollen lips parted, but all that came out was a shallow gasp. "The baby... Austin, please... not another one... I can't lose this baby..."
"You won't," I swore, my throat tightening until it burned. "I've got you. You're safe now."
"Sir, you have to stay behind this line," a tall emergency physician in blue scrubs ordered, planting both hands firmly against my chest. "We need to perform an emergent transabdominal ultrasound and stabilize her vitals. Step back."
The doors of Trauma Bay 3 slid shut in my face. The frosted glass muted the frantic shouts of nurses, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the muffled sound of my wife's crying.
I collapsed into a vinyl waiting chair, trembling from an adrenaline crash so severe my vision tunneled. I looked down at my hands. Irene’s blood was dried under my fingernails.
My phone vibrated in my suit pocket. It was Detective Marcus Vance from the Oakwood Police Department.
"Mr. Wentworth?" Vance’s voice was gruff, steady, and exhausted. "We have Margaret Wentworth and Carla Wentworth in custody down at central precinct. The arresting officers pulled over thirty thousand dollars in untraceable cash, your late father's Patek Philippe watch, three bearer bonds, and a claw hammer covered in your wife's DNA out of that master bedroom."
"Did they say anything?" I demanded, my knuckles whitening around the phone.
"Your mother hasn't stopped screaming for her family attorney since we put the cuffs on her," Vance replied. "She’s claiming you fabricated the video using artificial intelligence. Carla, on the other hand, is throwing up in an interrogation cell and asking if a home invasion charge carries mandatory state prison time."
"It does, doesn't it?"
"First-degree burglary, aggravated domestic assault, and witness intimidation during the commission of a felony," Vance confirmed coldly. "If your wife suffers a miscarriage as a result of that trauma, Mr. Wentworth, the district attorney will upgrade the charges to aggravated fetal homicide. They aren't walking out of here on signature bonds. But there's another thing."
"The cream envelope," I said, remembering the document the officer had allowed me to read before bagging it as evidence.
"Yeah. The transfer deed to Cedar House Capital," Vance said quietly. "Carla was screaming at the transport officer that Irene had stolen seventy percent of Canyon Ridge Holdings before your father died. She claims you were being played by your wife the entire time. Is there any truth to that?"
I stared at the closed doors of Trauma Bay 3. For four years, I believed I had taken over my father’s commercial real estate company fair and square. Canyon Ridge Holdings was Richard Wentworth’s life’s work. When he suffered a fatal stroke in 2022, Margaret had presented a revised will that left sixty percent of the company’s operating shares to her, twenty percent to me as managing CEO, and twenty percent in a trust for Carla.
Irene had never once asked to sit on the board. She was an architectural restoration specialist who ran her own quiet firm. She had never meddled in Wentworth family politics, even when Margaret spent every holiday dinner criticizing her clothes, her background, and her inability to carry a child to term.
Yet that cream envelope was dated March 14, 2026—just seven months ago. And it bore my father’s secret company seal, an emblem he retired ten years before his death.
"I don't know, Detective," I admitted honestly. "Right now, my only priority is keeping my wife and child alive."
"Understood. Call me the second she's out of danger. We need a formal sworn deposition to lock these charges down."
The line went dead.
Twenty minutes crawled by like twenty years. Every time the double doors opened, my heart leapt into my throat. Finally, the attending OB/GYN, Dr. Catherine Chen, walked out, pulling her surgical mask down to her collar.
I shot to my feet. "Doctor? How are they?"
Dr. Chen offered a gentle, tired smile that immediately released the iron band around my chest. "Your wife has two cracked ribs, a severe contusion along her zygomatic arch, and extensive soft-tissue bruising. But we located the fetal heartbeat."
Tears sprang instantly to my eyes. "The baby?"
"Strong and steady. One hundred and fifty-two beats per minute," Dr. Chen said softly. "The placenta shows no signs of detachment, which is a miracle given the blunt trauma she endured. But make no mistake, Austin: Irene's uterine lining is fragile due to her prior losses. Any surge of cortisol, any elevated stress, could trigger preterm labor. She cannot return to a hostile environment. She needs complete bed rest, round-the-clock monitoring, and absolute peace."
"Whatever she needs," I choked out, wiping my face with the back of my bruised hand. "Name the specialist, name the facility. Money is not an issue."
"She’s in Room 412. She’s awake, and she’s asking for you."
I practically sprinted down the hall.
Room 412 was quiet, lit only by the ambient glow of the heart rate monitor. Irene looked devastatingly fragile beneath the sterile white blankets. Her right eye was swollen shut, dark purple and yellow, and an IV drip fed fluids into her bruised forearm. But when she saw me, her good eye filled with tears, and her lips trembled.
I crossed the room in two strides, falling to my knees beside her bed and burying my face in the crook of her neck.
"They're okay," I whispered, sobbing against her hair. "The doctor checked. Our baby's heart is beating, Irene. You saved our baby."
Irene let out a ragged sob, her fingers tangling into my hair, holding me against her with every ounce of strength left in her broken body. "I was so scared, Austin... Carla swung that hammer at my head... your mother held me down... she told me nobody would ever know..."
"They're behind bars," I said, lifting my head to look into her swollen face. "They will never touch you again. I swear on my life, Irene, neither of them will ever step foot near our family again."
She closed her eyes, breathing heavily through her nose. After a long moment of silence, she turned her face toward the window.
"You saw the envelope, didn't you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The police bagged it," I answered carefully. "Cedar House Capital. Canyon Ridge Holdings."
May you like
Irene looked back at me, tears tracing paths through the dried blood on her cheek. "Austin... your father didn't die of natural causes. And your mother didn't inherit that company. She stole it."
***
