Chapter 5 - The Labor of Revenge
Three weeks later, the air in the city had turned crisp with the arrival of autumn.
Avery was sitting in the corner office of the Whitmore tower, reviewing the quarterly projections. The transition had been brutal, but she had ruthlessly purged Grant’s loyalists from the board and stabilized the stock. She was tired, her lower back aching constantly, but she felt a profound, untouchable peace.
Suddenly, a sharp, breathtaking pain ripped through her abdomen.
Avery gasped, dropping her pen. She gripped the edge of the glass desk, her knuckles turning white. She had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for a week, but this was different. This was violent. This was real.
She pressed the intercom button. “Sarah? Call my father. And call the car. It’s time.”
By the time Avery arrived at Mercy General Hospital, the contractions were coming every four minutes. She was immediately whisked up to the VIP maternity suite.
The hospital staff, hyper-aware that she was now the sole owner of the hospital, moved with military precision and absolute deference.
Thomas Vance arrived twenty minutes later, rushing into the room with his trench coat flying behind him.
“I’m here, bird,” Thomas said, grabbing her hand as another contraction hit. “Breathe. Just like we practiced.”
“It hurts, Daddy,” Avery ground out through clenched teeth, sweat beading on her forehead.
“I know. But you’re the strongest person I know. You’ve survived the worst. This is the beautiful part.”
Downstairs, in the main lobby of the hospital, chaos was unfolding.
Grant Whitmore had seen the news alerts. Someone inside the hospital had tipped off the paparazzi that the new CEO of Whitmore Medical was in labor. Desperate for a public relations miracle before his criminal trial began, Grant had rushed to the hospital, flanked by a sleazy defense attorney and a hired photographer.
He planned to push his way into the room, take a photo holding his newborn child, and leak it to the press with a story about a “reconciled family” and a “forgiven father.”
Grant marched up to the security desk at the entrance of the Women’s Health Wing.
“I’m here to see my wife,” Grant demanded, straightening his suit. “Avery Whitmore.”
The head of security, a massive man named Russo who had been standing there the day Brooke punched Avery, crossed his arms.
“You are not on the approved visitor list, Mr. Whitmore.”
“I am the father of that child!” Grant yelled, making sure the paparazzi hovering near the doors could hear him. “You cannot keep me from my family!”
He tried to push past the desk, but Russo stepped in front of him, planting a hand firmly on Grant’s chest.
“Mr. Whitmore, I suggest you step back.”
“Take your hands off me, you glorified mall cop!” Grant spat, trying to shove Russo aside.
It was the excuse Russo had been waiting for.
In one fluid motion, Russo grabbed Grant’s wrist, twisting it sharply behind his back and slamming him face-first onto the security desk. The hired photographer’s flash went off wildly, capturing the disgraced former CEO being manhandled.
“Grant Whitmore,” Russo said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket with his free hand. “I am executing a court-ordered, permanent restraining order filed by Avery Whitmore. You are in violation by being within five hundred feet of her.”
“No! Let me go! She’s my wife!”
Two police officers, already stationed in the lobby by Thomas Vance’s request, jogged over.
“We’ll take it from here, Russo,” one of the officers said, pulling out a pair of cuffs.
Grant was dragged out of the hospital, kicking and screaming, while the cameras flashed, permanently cementing his image not as a powerful CEO, but as a pathetic, desperate criminal.
Upstairs, oblivious to the pathetic spectacle below, Avery gave one final, earth-shattering push.
The room filled with the most beautiful, miraculous sound in the world—the loud, furious, healthy cry of a newborn baby.
Avery fell back against the pillows, sobbing with exhaustion and pure, unadulterated joy as the doctor placed the warm, squirming infant onto her chest.
“It’s a girl, Avery,” Thomas whispered, tears streaming down his weathered face. “A beautiful, perfect little girl.”
Avery looked down at her daughter. She had a shock of dark hair and perfect, tiny fingers. She was safe. She was loved. And she would never, ever know the shadow of the man who had tried to destroy them.
“Welcome to the world, Eleanor Vance,” Avery whispered, kissing her daughter’s forehead.
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She didn't give the baby Grant’s last name. The Whitmore legacy ended today.
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