Chapter 3 - The Ultimatum
The sterile white lights of trauma room three buzzed with an irritating hum. Through the reinforced glass window, I could see tiny Rosie lying inside a clear incubator, hooked up to a tangle of clear plastic tubing, wires, and a mechanical ventilator that breathed for her in shallow, rhythmic pulses.
Beside her, Lily sat on a small stool, holding a damp paper towel and silently crying, refusing to let go of the edge of the crib.
I stood in the hallway just outside, my fists clenched so tightly my knuckles were stark white. Vance stood a few paces behind me, keeping a firm, bruising grip on Derek’s arm.
“You can’t touch me, Cole,” Derek sneered, adjusting his rumpled collar now that Vance had set him back down on his feet. He looked smug, high on the tiny fraction of leverage he suddenly thought he possessed. “You own half the skyline in St. Louis, but you can’t buy a medical signature. The doctors won't touch her without me or Lena. And since Lena is out of the picture... I hold all the cards.”
“You think holding a dying infant's life ransom makes you powerful?” I asked softly. My voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The quiet, flat menace in my tone caused the two nearby hospital security guards to take a step back.
“It’s business,” Derek shrugged, flashing a greasy smile. “Lena inherited that riverfront warehouse property from her late uncle last month. A clean ten million in commercial zoning value. But the title was tied up in a family trust that requires both of us to sign off on the asset liquidation. Once I get the signature, and once that baby... well, once things are settled, I’ll sign whatever release forms the hospital wants. But not a second before.”
The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with sickening clarity.
Derek hadn't just been neglecting them. He had been starving them, isolating them, and systematically forcing Lena to sign away her inheritance—an inheritance that would bail out his catastrophic gambling debts to Viktor’s syndicate. When Lena resisted, threatening to run, he had escalated. The baby’s sudden illness wasn't an accident; it was the result of deliberate neglect, or worse, toxic exposure designed to break Lena’s spirit completely.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
“I’m a businessman,” Derek corrected smugly. “Now, what’s it going to be, Ethan? Do you let the kid kick the bucket on your watch while you look like the noble hero, or do you hand over the deed transfer to my offshore account so I can sign the medical release?”
Before I could answer, the door to the trauma room opened. Dr. Hayes, the senior pediatric surgeon, stepped out into the hallway, looking exhausted and grim.
“Mr. Cole,” the doctor said, bypassing Derek entirely. “The baby’s platelets are dropping rapidly. Her system is crashing. If we don't start the transfusion within ten minutes, she’s going into cardiac arrest.”
“Do it,” I said instantly. “I’ll authorize it.”
“You can't legally, Mr. Cole,” Dr. Hayes sighed, rubbing his temples. “Unless you're claiming paternity or hold power of attorney—”
“I am claiming whatever I have to claim,” I snapped.
“He can't!” Derek shouted, stepping forward. “She’s my daughter! Look at the adoption filings! I am her legal guardian in process!”
Dr. Hayes looked at Derek with undisguised disgust. “Are you her biological father, Mr. Mercer?”
Derek hesitated for a split second, his eyes darting sideways. “That’s... that’s irrelevant under current family code—”
“It’s entirely relevant,” a cool, calm voice interrupted from the end of the hallway.
We all turned.
Walking down the corridor with absolute, unhurried authority was Marcus Vance, my chief legal counsel and the most feared corporate litigator in the Midwest. He carried a sleek leather briefcase in one hand and a thick stack of blue-backed court documents in the other.
Marcus stopped right beside me, nodding respectfully before turning his sharp, analytical gaze onto Derek.
“Mr. Mercer,” Marcus said smoothly, opening his briefcase. “You might want to check your facts before you wave around fraudulent adoption paperwork in front of a federal hospital.”
Derek’s smug grin faltered. “What are you talking about? My paperwork is filed with the county clerk!”
“Your forged paperwork was filed with a corrupt county clerk who is currently being perp-walked out of his municipal office by the FBI,” Marcus corrected, pulling out a crisp, freshly stamped court order bearing the signature of the Chief Judge of the Missouri Supreme Court. “Furthermore, DNA lineage analysis filed by Lena Mercer thirty days prior to her disappearance establishes biological paternity not with you, Mr. Mercer... but with a matter of public record that invalidates your custody claims entirely.”
Derek stared at the document, his face turning the color of skim milk. “That’s... that’s impossible. Lena wouldn't have dared—”
“Lena dared a lot more than you realize,” I said, stepping right up to Derek, towering over him until he was forced to lean back against the wall.
May you like
I reached out, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and lifted him off the ground with one hand, my face inches from his.
“You have five seconds, Derek,” I whispered, my voice cold enough to freeze blood. “To tell me where Lena is. Because if you don't, I won't just let the federal prosecutors throw away the key. I’ll hand you over to Viktor myself.”
