Chapter 4 - The Reckoning at the Hospital
"What?!" Cordelia shrieked as the two officers stepped forward, pulling her arms behind her back. "Uncle Marcus, are you insane?! You can't arrest me! I'm your niece!"
"Shut up, Cordelia!" Marcus barked, turning his face away in bitter humiliation. "You did this to yourself! Put her in the cruiser!"
The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked around Cordelia’s wrists.
The crowd of hotel guests erupted into hushed cheers and murmurs, recording every second as the city’s most arrogant heiress was led out of the Ashworth Grand in handcuffs, her stained red dress wrinkled, her hair disheveled, and tears of pure humiliation streaming down her face.
Harlan Vance collapsed into a leather chair in the corner of the lobby, burying his face in his hands. He knew it was over. By tomorrow morning, news of the assault would hit the financial markets. The Calloway deal was dead. His family's stock would plunge to zero, and the banks would come to reclaim every asset they owned. His life as a wealthy socialite was officially finished.
Royce didn't waste another second looking at the ruined couple. He turned to Mrs. Petrova.
"Have the mirror replaced by tomorrow morning," Royce ordered smoothly. "Clean the floor. Give every guest in the lobby a full refund for their stay tonight, and ensure no press enters the premises."
"Yes, Mr. Calloway," Mrs. Petrova said, bowing deeply. "And... what about Miss Marsh’s job?"
Royce stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes dark.
"Della Marsh will never work another shift as a waitress in her life," Royce said quietly. "Prepare her final paycheck—and multiply the amount by ten thousand. Put it in a trust fund."
Without waiting for a response, Royce turned and walked out through the VIP glass doors, where his black armored sedan was waiting at the curb. His trusted driver and lieutenant, Viktor, held the rear door open.
"To the main estate, sir?" Viktor asked as Royce stepped into the leather-lined interior.
"No," Royce said, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. "St. Jude Women's Hospital. Drive fast."
The St. Jude VIP maternity ward was the quietest, most exclusive medical floor in the state.
Della lay in a spacious, private room lit by soft, warm lamps. The high-pitched beep of a heart monitor provided a steady, comforting rhythm in the background. She was wearing a soft hospital gown, a thick fleece blanket pulled up to her chest.
A female obstetrician, Dr. Sarah Lin, stood beside the bed, holding an ultrasound wand over Della’s bare, gel-covered abdomen. The monitor beside the bed showed a grainy, black-and-white image.
Della held her breath, her fingers gripping the edge of the bedsheet so hard her knuckles turned white. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the screen, unable to read the complex shapes.
"Dr. Lin..." Della choked out, her voice trembling with intense anxiety. "Please... tell me. Is my baby okay? Was there any damage from the impact?"
Dr. Lin smiled warmly, tapping a key on the ultrasound machine.
Suddenly, a loud, rhythmic sound filled the room.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
It was the strong, rapid, healthy heartbeat of a developing child.
Tears burst from Della’s eyes—not tears of pain or fear, but tears of overwhelming, unspeakable relief. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed softly.
"The baby is completely fine, Della," Dr. Lin said gently, wiping the gel off Della's stomach with a soft towel. "The amniotic fluid provided total protection during the fall. You have a few minor bruises on your shoulder and lower back from hitting the frame, but the placenta is intact, and there is no internal bleeding whatsoever. Your little one is a fighter."
"Thank God..." Della sobbed, pressing her hand against her stomach. "Thank God..."
"You need rest," Dr. Lin added, adjusting the IV drip attached to Della’s hand. "Your stress levels were dangerously high when you arrived. I’ve administered a mild, pregnancy-safe sedative to help you sleep. You'll stay here overnight for observation."
"Doctor," Della said, looking around the luxurious room with high-end wood paneling, a private balcony, and plush leather sofas. "I... I can't afford this room. I don't have private health insurance. I need to be moved to a standard ward..."
Dr. Lin chuckled softly, setting down her clipboard. "Della, your medical bill has already been paid in full. In fact, the owner of the hotel where you work has placed an open-ended credit line on your chart. You could stay here for a month, and you wouldn't owe a single penny."
Della blinked in disbelief. "The owner?"
Before Dr. Lin could answer, a quiet knock sounded at the door.
The door pushed open, and Royce Calloway stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos that covered his skin.
Dr. Lin bowed respectfully toward Royce. "Mr. Calloway. The patient is stable, and the fetal heartbeat is strong. She just needs rest."
"Thank you, Doctor," Royce said, his voice quiet. "Please give us a moment."
Dr. Lin nodded and quietly exited the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Della sat up slightly in the bed, looking at the tall, imposing man who had saved her twice in one evening. She felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness in her hospital gown, but the sheer gratitude in her heart swallowed her nervousness.
"Mr. Calloway..." Della said softly. "The doctor told me... you paid for all of this. The VIP room, the specialists..."
Royce walked slowly toward the side of her bed. He pulled up a leather armchair and sat down, his large frame relaxing slightly as he looked at her pale, sweet face.
"It is nothing," Royce said quietly. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm... I'm okay now," Della whispered, a fragile smile appearing on her lips. "Hearing the heartbeat... it was all I cared about. I don't care about the bruises. I just wanted my baby to be safe."
Royce’s gaze softened. He looked down at her hands resting on the blanket.
"You haven't changed at all," he murmured, almost to himself.
Della frowned slightly, confused. "What do you mean?"
Royce reached out. For a moment, he hesitated, as if asking for permission. Then, gently, his fingers reached down and touched the pale, crescent-shaped scar on the back of her right hand.
Della shivered at the warmth of his touch. She looked at his hand, then at the scar, and then back up into his pale gray eyes.
"You keep looking at my scar," Della said softly. "Why?"
Royce looked directly into her eyes, the cold, dangerous king of the underworld vanishing entirely, leaving behind only the vulnerable, wounded young man from seven years ago.
"Seven years ago," Royce began, his voice low and filled with a heavy, ancient emotion. "It was pouring rain in the south district. A young man was shot. He was bleeding to death in an alley behind a tenement building while six armed men hunted him down."
Della’s eyes widened slowly. Her breath hitched in her throat.
"He thought he was going to die," Royce continued, his thumb gently tracing the outline of the scar on her hand. "Until a brave young girl opened her back door, dragged him into the dark, and hid him behind a stack of wooden crates. She held a clean rag to his wound all night. And when an intruder kicked the door open, a piece of broken glass cut her hand."
Della gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as the memories swept over her like a tidal wave.
May you like
The rainy night. The bleeding young man with the dark, intense eyes. The terror of the men outside. The broken glass on the floor.
"You..." Della whispered, her voice trembling in absolute shock. "The wounded boy from the alley... that was you?"
