Chapter 2 - The Hospital Call
The phone rang three times before a tired, professional voice answered.
"St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, billing and patient accounts. This is nurse Peterson."
"Hello," Emily said, her voice catching slightly before she cleared her throat. "This is Emily Cole—Brooks. For patient Linda Brooks. Room 412."
"Ah, Mrs. Brooks. I'm afraid we've been trying to reach you regarding the pending authorization for the targeted immunotherapy regimen. The deposit of forty-five thousand dollars hasn't cleared, and per hospital policy—"
"It's cleared," a sharp, smooth voice interrupted.
Everyone turned. It wasn't Emily speaking. It was Harold Donovan, who had pressed a small desktop intercom button.
"Mr. Donovan?" the nurse asked, her voice instantly shifting from administrative fatigue to sheer, breathless awe. "Is... is this Donovan Holdings?"
"This is Harold Donovan," the old man replied, leaning toward the speaker box. "Draw up a direct wire transfer request for two hundred thousand dollars to cover Linda Brooks's complete course of treatment, private nursing care, and any subsequent therapeutic needs for the next twenty-four months. Charge it directly to the Donovan Foundation account. Code 88-Delta."
On the other end of the line, there was a stunned silence, followed by the frantic clacking of computer keys.
"Mr... Mr. Donovan, that—that covers everything. That covers her entire treatment plan with a surplus," the nurse stammered.
"Good," Harold said simply. "Send the itemized confirmation to Mrs. Brooks's new encrypted device within the hour. If there are any administrative delays, have your director call my private secretary directly."
"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!"
Harold cut the intercom.
In the library, the silence was suffocating. Ethan stared at Harold with a mixture of disbelief, greed, and a sudden, creeping terror. If this old man could drop two hundred thousand dollars on a dying mother-in-law he had never met with the casual indifference of buying a cup of coffee, then the two million he had just received was pocket change.
Had he undersold her?
For a fraction of a second, Ethan felt a twitch of regret. But then he looked at Emily—standing there in her borrowed cream dress, her shoulders rigid, her eyes haunted—and he pushed the thought away. She was someone else's problem now.
"Well," Ethan said, forcing a bright, brittle smile back onto his face as he clapped his hands together. "Looks like everybody wins. Mom, let's go. We have a lot of celebrating to do."
Jocelyn tossed one last, venomous glare at Emily. "Good riddance," she spat. "Try not to bankrupt this one, dear."
Ethan turned toward the double doors, eager to vanish into the rainy night before Harold could change his mind.
"Ethan," Harold's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
Ethan turned, forcing an amiable grin. "Yes, Mr. Donovan? Is there something else? A receipt? A copy of the waiver?"
"No," Harold said, standing up slowly with the aid of his cane. He was taller than Ethan had realized, imposing even in his late seventies. "The paperwork is done. But you forgot your parting gift."
Ethan blinked, hopeful. "A bonus?"
Harold raised his left hand and snapped his fingers twice.
The library doors swung open behind Ethan and Jocelyn. Two massive men in dark suits—private security guards built like brick monoliths—blocked the exit.
Ethan's smile evaporated. "What is this?"
May you like
"Security protocol," Harold said smoothly, walking around his desk and coming to a stop just inches from Emily. He gently placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder—a gesture so entirely devoid of romantic pretension, yet so fiercely protective, that Ethan felt physically sick watching it.
"You didn't think I was going to let you walk out of my house with my money and zero insurance, did you, Ethan?" Harold asked, his blue eyes flashing like winter ice.
