Chapter 3 - The Secret in the NICU
Huddled in the freezing rain on the high-rise balcony, my lungs seized. The world spun violently.
*Our son.*
Not Grant and *my* son. Grant and Evelyn’s son.
The pieces of a horrific puzzle slammed together with terrifying force. Five years ago, I had gone into premature labor at thirty-four weeks. Grant had rushed me to Cincinnati General—where Dr. Evelyn Cross was a senior attending physician. I had been heavily sedated, undergoing an emergency C-section. When I woke up, weeping and terrified, Grant and his mother, Margaret, stood over my bed with grim, rehearsed grief.
*“I’m so sorry, Claire,”* Grant had whispered, holding my hand while hiding his eyes. *“The baby didn’t make it. His lungs were too underdeveloped. He passed away peacefully.”*
They had cremated him. There was no funeral. No body. Just a death certificate signed by a doctor I was too drugged to question.
And now, standing inside my study, Dr. Evelyn Cross was smoothing down her Chanel skirt while my husband poured two glasses of scotch.
"She won't find out anything," Grant scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. "Mother handled the hospital records years ago. Every file, every nurse's note, every birth registry was altered under a sealed pediatric directive. Claire was too medicated to remember a damn thing. She thinks her child died in a sterile incubator."
"And the ultrasound package?" Evelyn pressed, her eyes narrowing. "Why did you send it to her?"
Grant grinned—a cold, sadistic smile I had once mistaken for charm. "A little psychological warfare, Evelyn. I wanted her broken before she signs the final property transfer tomorrow. A desperate, broken woman doesn't hire expensive lawyers. She just packs a bag and disappears."
On the other side of the glass, my vision blurred with a mix of blinding rage and paralyzing grief. Five years of mourning. Five years of guilt, wondering if my body had failed my child, if my anxiety had caused his premature arrival. Every anniversary of that terrible night had been marked by tears and silence, while Grant secretly celebrated his betrayal with another woman and a stolen child.
Beside me, Ethan felt me swaying. His strong hand gripped my shoulder, anchoring me to reality. His eyes were blazing with a cold, protective fury.
*We need proof,* Ethan mouthed silently, tapping his jacket pocket where his phone was tucked.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I inched closer to the glass door, which had been left slightly ajar to let in the night air. Inside, Grant had tossed his leather briefcase onto the couch. Sticking out of the side pocket was a thick manila folder labeled: *Mercer-Cross Trust / Confidential.*
"I'm going to get that folder," I whispered to Ethan.
"Are you insane?" Ethan hissed. "He'll see you."
"Not if you create a distraction."
Before Ethan could argue, he slipped away down the balcony, heading toward the living room side. A moment later, a loud crash echoed from the front of the penthouse, followed by the shattering of glass.
"What the hell was that?" Grant shouted inside the study, dropping his scotch glass.
"Check the hallway!" Evelyn shrieked.
May you like
As Grant and Evelyn rushed out of the study toward the noise, I slipped through the balcony doors, lunged across the room, and yanked the manila folder from Grant's briefcase.
***
