Chapter 7 - Inside the Compound
The iron gate unlocked with a sharp heavy metallic buzz as I swiped Mark’s corporate administrative access card through the scanner.
I pushed the gate open and walked briskly up the wet stone pathway toward the main brick building. Warm yellow light glowed from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the ground floor.
I walked up the stone steps and pushed through the heavy glass double doors into the lobby.
The interior was lavishly furnished with plush Persian rugs, mahogany paneling, and soft classical music playing softly through hidden speakers. Behind a marble reception desk sat a young nurse in white scrubs, typing on a terminal.
She looked up, startled by my rain-soaked appearance.
"Ma'am? Can I help you?" she asked, standing up. "Visiting hours ended at six o'clock—"
"I am Sarah Vance-Miller," I stated, stepping up to the desk, projecting an air of absolute, terrifying corporate authority. "I am here with Mark Miller's administrative authority to inspect the Vance Estate infant specimen before tomorrow's escrow transfer."
I slammed Mark's corporate access card and his signed Vance Trust power-of-attorney documents onto the marble counter.
The nurse looked at the official documents, then at the name on the card, her hesitation instantly dissolving. "Oh... Mrs. Miller! We weren't expecting you until tomorrow morning with Dr. Vance!"
"There was a scheduling change," I said coldly. "Take me to the nursery immediately."
"Of course," the nurse stammered, coming out from behind the desk. "Right this way."
She led me down a quiet, carpeted hallway lined with private medical suites. We reached a set of reinforced frosted-glass doors at the end of the hall. The nurse swiped her keycard, and the doors glided open.
Inside was a small, pristine infant care unit with three acrylic bassinets under soft heating lamps.
In the middle bassinet lay a tiny newborn wrapped in a simple white blanket.
My heart stopped. My knees nearly buckled.
I rushed past the nurse, stepping up to the bassinet.
I reached down with trembling, tear-soaked hands and pulled back the white blanket, lifting the baby's tiny left arm.
There, stamped clearly onto her pale, delicate wrist, was a small, perfect brown mole—a tiny crescent-shaped birthmark.
"My baby..." I sobbed out loud, pulling the infant close against my chest, burying my face in her soft, warm neck. Her scent—the sweet, pure scent of my real daughter—filled my lungs, washing away three days of agonizing nightmare.
She whimpered softly, her tiny fingers reaching out to latch onto the collar of my wet coat.
"Mrs. Miller?" the nurse asked, her voice suddenly laced with deep suspicion as she noticed my tears. "Why are you taking her out of the bassinet? Dr. Vance's orders strictly state—"
"Dr. Vance's orders are revoked," a cold, sharp voice interrupted from the doorway.
I turned around.
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Standing in the doorway of the nursery was Dr. Helen Vance—a tall, aristocratic woman in her late fifties with sharp grey eyes, wearing an expensive tailored suit.
And standing right behind her, holding a heavy steel hand-gun, was my husband, Mark.
