Chapter 4 - The Triage Room
The emergency drive to the maternal-fetal center downtown took twenty-two minutes through the pouring rain.
Rowan didn't take the limousine; he drove his own black SUV, his left hand holding mine across the center console the entire way, his thumb stroking the back of my hand every time my fingers twitched with another faint contraction.
The clinic was quiet when we arrived through the private basement entrance. Dr. Sarah Chen, my obstetrician, was already waiting in the third-floor triage bay, her navy scrubs covered by a white lab coat, her face serious as she watched us come through the double doors.
“Lena called ahead,” Dr. Chen said, guiding me directly onto the examination bed while Rowan stood by the door, his hand still clamped onto mine. “Abigail, lie back. Let’s get these monitors on you right now.”
The elastic bands of the fetal monitor felt cold against my bare skin. Within ten seconds, the room was filled with the fast, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my baby’s heart—one hundred and forty-eight beats per minute, strong and regular.
Rowan let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping two inches as he leaned his forehead against the metal side rail of the bed.
“Heart rate is excellent,” Dr. Chen said, her eyes fixed on the scrolling paper feed coming out of the monitor. “But your uterine activity is elevated, Abigail. You’re having small, irritable contractions every eight minutes.”
She moved the ultrasound wand across my lower abdomen, her brow furrowing slightly as she measured the length of my cervix on the gray display screen.
“The rest orders I sent three weeks ago,” Dr. Chen turned her head to look at Rowan. “Were they being followed?”
“No,” Rowan said, his voice flat and bitter. “She was forced to clean floors, lift heavy boxes, and was locked out of her medical appointments.”
Dr. Chen’s eyes snapped to his face, then down to my arm, where the dark blue bruises Celeste had left were fully visible under the bright fluorescent lights of the exam room.
She didn't ask questions. She had been practicing medicine in Atlanta long enough to recognize the signs of domestic control, even when it came wrapped in cashmere and six-generation family money.
“We’re putting you on a terbutaline pump for forty-eight hours to quiet the muscle,” Dr. Chen said, her tone crisp and professional as she snapped her rubber gloves off into the waste container. “And you’re not going home tonight, Abigail. You’re staying in the antepartum wing until Tuesday at the earliest.”
“I want her in a private room on the secure floor,” Rowan said immediately, stepping forward to pull my shirt down over my stomach. “No visitors without my explicit written authorization. No family members. No phone calls routed through the main switchboard.”
Dr. Chen looked at him for a long second, evaluating the dark circles under his eyes and the red rim around his irises. “That can be arranged, Mr. Armand. But you look like you need a bed yourself.”
“I’m not leaving her,” Rowan said.
Twenty minutes later, I was tucked into a high, narrow bed in Room 412 of the West Wing. The room was quiet, lit only by the green display of the IV pump that was slowly dripping medication into my right arm to stop the contractions.
Rowan had pulled the heavy vinyl armchair directly beside the head of my bed. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, his fingers resting lightly against my forearm, right above the bandage where the IV was taped.
“I talked to David Vance while they were setting up the drip,” Rowan said softly, his voice echoing in the small room.
I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. “What did he say?”
“He’s initiating a full forensic review of the trust’s operational accounts tomorrow morning,” Rowan said, his thumb moving slowly over my skin. “The eight-six thousand dollars Celeste diverted under your name was just the tip of it, Abby. She’s been siphoning funds from the property maintenance budget for nearly two years—ever since our father’s estate cleared probate.”
I closed my eyes, the exhaustion of the last six weeks finally washing over me like a heavy, cold wave. “She thought I would be easy to frame because I didn't come from money. She thought the trustees would just assume I was greedy.”
“She miscalculated,” Rowan said, his voice turning dark again. “She forgot who you were before you married me. She forgot that you spent seven years looking through the trash piles of corrupt CEOs for a living.”
He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the inside of my wrist—right over the spot where his sister’s nails had dug into my flesh four hours ago.
“When we go home,” Rowan whispered against my skin, “things are going to be different, Abby. The locks are already being changed. The staff is being replaced by people I personally vet. And Celeste will never set foot within fifty miles of our son.”
“Rowan?” I murmured, my eyelids growing heavy as the terbutaline began to relax my muscles.
“Yeah?”
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“Don't let her take the blue folders from the library,” I said, my voice trailing off into sleep. “There’s a fourth file... under the blotter... she didn't see it...”
Rowan’s hand tightened around mine. “I’ll find it, Abby. Sleep now. I’ve got the watch.”
