Chapter 17 - The Hospital Waiting Room
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The ambulance ride was a blur of flashing lights and shouting paramedics.
Nathaniel held Clare’s cold, limp hand the entire way, his clothes stained with her blood. When they arrived at Mount Sinai, the trauma team rushed her through the double doors, leaving Nathaniel standing alone in the stark, sterile hallway.
For three hours, he paced. He didn't wash his hands. He didn't change his clothes. He wanted the blood to stay there—a reminder of exactly what he had to avenge.
His phone buzzed incessantly. It was his corporate lawyers, confirming the FBI had raided Ashcroft Holdings. The news was already breaking. Douglas Ashcroft was being placed in handcuffs on national television.
But Nathaniel felt no satisfaction. The empire was burning, but the only thing he cared about was bleeding out on an operating table.
Finally, a surgeon in green scrubs emerged, looking exhausted.
Nathaniel rushed forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Is she..."
"Ms. Whitmore suffered severe blunt force trauma," the doctor said quietly, pulling off his cap. "She has multiple fractures and internal bleeding. We managed to stabilize her, but she is currently in a medically induced coma to help her body heal."
Nathaniel felt his knees weaken. "And the baby?"
The doctor looked down, unable to meet Nathaniel’s eyes.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ashcroft. The placental abruption was too severe. We couldn't save the child."
The world stopped spinning. The air left the room.
Nathaniel didn't cry. He didn't scream. A terrifying, absolute silence fell over his soul.
His child was dead. The woman he loved was broken in a hospital bed.
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He turned away from the doctor, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number he hadn't called in ten years. The number of a man who didn't exist on any corporate payroll, but solved problems for the darkest corners of the underworld.
"I need a cleaner," Nathaniel said into the phone, his voice devoid of all humanity. "And I need three graves."
