Chapter 6 - Shadows of the Past
The VIP wing of Michigan General Hospital was a world away from the room above the repair shop.
Bright light flooded the private suite. Warm air hummed quietly from invisible vents. Advanced monitors beeped in a steady, reassuring rhythm, tracking Evelyn’s heart, oxygen, and blood pressure. Three of the top specialists in the Midwest stood at the foot of the bed, reviewing digital brain and spinal scans.
Laya sat in a soft armchair beside the bed, wearing clean clothes—a soft pink wool sweater and warm corduroy pants that Sterling had ordered from a boutique down the street. Her hair had been washed and combed, and a small silver locket matching her mother’s now rested around her neck.
Evelyn lay beneath thick, warm duvets. An IV line ran into her arm, pumping life-saving antibiotics, warm fluids, and targeted neurological medications into her system. Her cheeks had already regained a faint flush of rose color. She was sleeping peacefully, her breathing deep and clear for the first time in years.
"She’s going to recover fully, Mr. Vance," Dr. Harrison said, stepping out into the private hallway with Sterling. "The paralysis in her legs was caused by a severe, untreated spinal inflammation resulting from an old infection. The toxins were suffocating the nerve pathways. With the specialized therapy and immunoglobulins we’re administering, she should be walking within three months."
Sterling closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, a long, shaky breath leaving his chest. "Thank God."
"However," Dr. Harrison added, lowering his voice, "there is another matter. Two hours ago, a man claiming to be your brother, Richard Vance, arrived at the main hospital desk. He demanded access to this floor, claiming he needed to verify the identity of the patient."
Sterling’s eyes snapped open, every trace of exhaustion disappearing, replaced by a lethal, icy calm.
"Where is he?" Sterling asked.
"Security blocked him at the elevator bank," Dr. Harrison replied. "He seemed... extremely agitated."
Sterling nodded slowly. "Keep four armed guards on this door, Doctor. No one enters without my personal green light."
Sterling walked down the private corridor toward the glass observation lounge at the end of the wing. Sitting on a leather sofa, looking through a thick folder of legal financial documents, was his chief security officer, Marcus.
"Is the trap set, Marcus?" Sterling asked, standing behind the glass.
"Yes, Mr. Vance," Marcus replied, handing him a tablet display showing a live surveillance feed of the Vance Tower executive board room. "Richard has called an emergency meeting of the board of directors for four o'clock today. He believes you are absent dealing with a 'minor personal matter.' He intends to use your brief absence to push through a motion declaring you mentally unfit due to grief, citing your sudden reallocation of ten million dollars to the hospital foundation this morning."
Sterling looked at the tablet. On the screen, Richard Vance—a sleek, sharp-featured man in his late fifties with cold blue eyes and a manicured mustache—was pacing the head of the boardroom table, laughing with two corrupt shareholders.
"He thinks he’s finally won," Sterling murmured softly. "He thinks the girl and the money are buried in the dark."
"What are your orders, sir?" Marcus asked.
May you like
Sterling looked back down the hallway toward the door of Room 604, where his granddaughter was currently sitting beside his sleeping daughter.
"Call the Federal Prosecutor," Sterling said, his voice ringing like an iron bell. "And tell the police chief to bring six units to Vance Tower at 4:15 PM. My brother has enjoyed his stolen life for ten years. It’s time he pays the bill."
