Chapter 7 - The Wolf at the Door
For the next three days, I lived in a state of absolute focus.
I spent twelve hours a day at St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital, overseeing Paisley’s recovery. The little girl was doing remarkably well—she was sitting up in bed, color returning to her cheeks, coloring in her storybooks while her dedicated nurses tended to her. Every time I walked into her room, she gave me a wide, bright smile and called me her "angel doctor."
Meanwhile, Andrew and Gemma were living in a fantasy world.
Gemma had posted over fifty photos on social media of their impulsive wedding, captioning them with toxic phrases like: "When destiny steps in!" and "Real love doesn't make you wait!"
Andrew had left six frantic voicemails on my phone, not apologizing, but demanding that I return my spare keys to his penthouse and transfer my personal items out of our shared storage unit immediately.
On Wednesday afternoon, as I was stepping out of the hospital staff lounge, Andrew was standing near the reception desk.
He was wearing an expensive navy suit, looking arrogant and impatient, tapping his foot against the linoleum. When he saw me in my blue scrubs, he straightened his silk tie and marched forward.
"Claire," Andrew snapped, crossing his arms. "You've been ignoring my calls."
"I've been working, Andrew," I said flatly, keeping my distance. "Some of us have actual responsibilities."
"Look, I came here to give you a chance to handle this like adults," Andrew said, leaning in, his tone dropping into a condescending whisper. "I know you're hurt about Saturday. But you brought it on yourself. You chose your job over our wedding day. Gemma stepped in to save my family from embarrassment."
"Gemma stepped in to help you access my grandfather's trust fund," I corrected coldly.
Andrew’s eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp flash of panic, but he quickly covered it with a sneer. "Don't be ridiculous. That trust fund is locked under secondary estate protocols. Anyway, I need you to sign a release waiver for the wedding venue security deposit."
He slid a white paper folder toward me. I opened it.
It wasn't a venue release waiver. It was a retroactive consent form that would legally transfer my signature authority over the trust fund to Gemma’s father as co-trustee.
He was trying to trick me into signing away my inheritance right in the middle of a hospital hallway.
I looked up from the paper, looking directly into Andrew's eyes. I saw no love, no regret, no humanity—only desperation and greed.
I slowly tore the paper in half, then tore it again, and dropped the white scraps into the recycling bin beside the desk.
"See you tomorrow night at the Gala, Andrew," I said softly, stepping past him toward the ICU.
May you like
Andrew turned around, his face flushing red with anger. "Don't bother coming tomorrow, Claire! You're not invited! Security won't even let you past the lobby!"
I didn't bother turning back to reply.
