Chapter 9 - The King’s DecreeForty-eight hours later, Lakeshore Crown Medical Center was unrecognizable.
The entire administrative board had been quietly replaced overnight. Melissa Grant had handed in her resignation at 6:00 AM, her face white with terror, and boarded a one-way flight out of the country before sunrise.
In her place, room 304—the private executive trauma suite—had been transformed into a secure command center guarded by four armed syndicate operatives stationed outside the reinforced doors.
Inside, Vincent Mercer sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, reading a secure financial tablet while an IV dripped saline into his left arm. The jagged scars along his shoulder were cleanly re-bandaged.
The door opened softly.
Nora walked in, wearing her standard navy scrubs, carrying a tray with his morning medication and vitals chart. She had expected to find a nurse's aide or at least Caleb standing guard inside, but the room was empty except for Vincent.
“Your heart rate is still elevated,” Nora noted professionally, checking the digital monitor by his bed without making direct eye contact. “And you’ve been out of bed again, haven't you?”
“Only to walk to the window,” Vincent replied smoothly. His deep, gravelly voice had recovered much of its authority. He set the tablet down on the bedside table and watched her every move.
Nora checked his IV drip, adjusted the flow rate, and reached for his chart. “Well, your stitches are holding. The internal bleeding has stopped entirely. If you keep resting for another forty-eight hours, the chief surgeon says you can be discharged.”
“I’m not going back to my estate,” Vincent said casually.
Nora paused, looking up from the clipboard. “Excuse me? Your lakefront home is secure, and you have private medical staff there.”
“My estate burned down eleven years ago, Nora,” Vincent reminded her softly, his gray eyes locking onto hers with intense clarity. “And my private medical staff didn't save my life two nights ago. A stubborn, brilliant trauma nurse did.”
Nora’s cheeks flushed slightly. She looked away, setting the chart down on the tray table. “Mr. Mercer—Vincent—you don’t owe me anything. Doing my job is what I’m paid for.”
“Fifty-four thousand a year,” Vincent said quietly.
Nora blinked. “What?”
“That is what Lakeshore Crown pays you,” Vincent continued, picking up a heavy leather-bound document from the bedside table and sliding it across the tray toward her. “Or rather, what they were paying you before I bought out the hospital’s primary stakeholder yesterday afternoon.”
Nora stared at the document in stunned silence. She picked it up with trembling fingers, flipping open the heavy paper cover.
It wasn't an employment contract.
It was a deed of ownership, transferring the entire Lakeshore Crown Medical Center—along with a newly established, fully funded Emergency Trauma Research Foundation—into her name as Chief Director of Medical Operations. Attached to it was an executive decree granting her absolute authority over hospital staffing, budget allocation, and medical protocols across the entire midwest division.
“You... you bought the hospital?” Nora breathed, her eyes wide with absolute disbelief.
“I bought the building, the staff, and your freedom from a system that didn't appreciate your value,” Vincent said, his voice steady and unyielding. He shifted slightly, sliding his legs over the side of the hospital bed.
Before Nora could protest, Vincent stood up. He was taller than she remembered, towering over her with an aura of absolute power and quiet intensity.
He didn't wear gloves.
He didn't flinch.
Slowly, deliberately, Vincent reached out and took Nora’s hand in his, his bare skin pressing directly against hers.
May you like
For eleven years, touch had meant betrayal, agony, and fire.
Now, holding her hand in the quiet morning light of the hospital room, Vincent Mercer felt only warmth, certainty, and peace.
