Chapter 3 - The Cover-Up Begins
At 7:00 AM, the door to my private hospital room swung open.
Ryan stepped inside, carrying a large cup of coffee from a local bakery and a bouquet of yellow roses—my least favorite flower, though he had never bothered to learn that in seven years of marriage. He looked refreshed, shaved, and wore a pristine charcoal suit.
“Morning, sweet pea,” he said smoothly, setting the roses on the bedside tray. He pulled up a vinyl chair and sat down, leaning over to kiss my forehead. I didn't pull away; I let him touch me so he would remain entirely comfortable in his delusion.
“How is the pain?” he asked, putting on his best impression of a grieving, attentive husband.
“It hurts,” I said softly, keeping my voice raspy and fragile. “The doctor said I’ll be in a cast for six weeks.”
“I know, I know,” Ryan sighed, shaking his head with manufactured sorrow. “It broke my heart seeing you stumble like that, Clara. You really need to be more careful on those polished hardwood steps. I’ve told you a hundred times that those silk socks are a liability.”
“Is that what you told the doctors?” I asked quietly.
“Of course,” Ryan said, taking my hand and squeezing it just tightly enough to feel controlling. “I filled out the admission forms and filed the preliminary report with the hospital’s patient safety intake. I told them you were carrying a box of old records down from the attic, lost your footing on the top step, and fell all the way to the foyer.”
“And my phone?”
Ryan blinked, not a single trace of remorse touching his handsome face. “You dropped it during the fall, remember? It smashed against the bottom step post. I threw the broken pieces in the trash outside. Don't worry, I’ll order you a new one once we get everything sorted out at the office.”
He leaned closer, his dark eyes fixing onto mine with a sharp, warning edge.
“Speaking of the office,” he whispered, “my father and mother were very shaken up by your little outburst last night. Mom was crying all morning. She can't believe you would accuse Charles of taking money when he’s dedicated his golden years to supporting our family brand.”
“Charles took $3.8 million, Ryan,” I said, looking him dead in the eye.
Ryan’s jaw tightened. He let go of my hand and stood up, smoothing his tie. “We aren't doing this here, Clara. When you get discharged this afternoon, you’re coming back to the house. You’re going to sit down with our legal counsel, sign the withdrawal of that absurd audit request, and sign the equity rebalancing papers. If you do that, we can pretend last night never happened. I’ll take care of you. We’ll go on a vacation to Maui.”
“And if I don't?”
Ryan let out a cold, soft chuckle. He reached out and lightly tapped the hard plaster of my leg cast with his finger. Pain shot straight up my hip, but I didn't flinch.
“If you don't,” Ryan whispered, “you’re a crippled, unemployed editor with no phone, no access to company accounts, and a history of 'emotional instability' that I will personally detail to every judge in Multnomah County. You have no family left, Clara. Who is going to take your word over mine, my father’s, and my mother’s?”
I stared at him, taking in every detail of his smug, handsome face.
“You’re right,” I murmured softly. “I have nobody.”
May you like
Ryan smiled, entirely satisfied. “That’s my girl. I’ll be back at two to check you out. Be ready.”
He picked up his coffee, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, feeling like a king who had just put down a minor peasant rebellion. He had no idea that three blocks away, Daniel Whitmore was currently stepping into the chambers of a superior court judge with a tablet containing high-definition video of the king stepping on my phone while his father broke my leg.
