The Cost of Ivory

The neon red letters of the St. Jude’s Emergency Room sign blurred in the rain as I pulled up to the curb. I unbuckled Leo and carried him inside, bypassing the triage line and marching straight to the front desk.

“Christina Prescott,” I demanded, gripping the edge of the counter. “She was admitted yesterday.”

The nurse typed her name into the system. She frowned. “Sir, are you family? She’s under a strict privacy hold.”

“I am her father,” I snapped, slamming my driver’s license onto the counter. “And this is her son. Tell me where she is right now.”

The nurse flinched at my tone but checked the screen again. “Room 412. But sir, her fiancé gave explicit instructions that she shouldn’t be disturbed. She suffered a severe concussive fall.”

“She doesn’t have a fiancé,” I snarled, grabbing my ID.

I carried Leo to the elevator, my chest tight. Arthur. Arthur had posed as her fiancé to control her medical care.

When we reached the fourth floor, the corridors were quiet. I found Room 412 and pushed the heavy wooden door open.

The room was dimly lit. Christina lay in the hospital bed, an IV taped to the back of her hand. A bandage wrapped around her forehead. She looked pale and small against the white sheets.

“Mommy!” Leo cried, wiggling out of my arms and running to the edge of her bed.

Christina’s eyes fluttered open. She looked disoriented, her pupils dilated from whatever they were pumping into her veins. When she saw Leo, tears immediately spilled down her cheeks.

“Leo,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She reached out a shaking hand to touch his hair. Then she looked up at me. “Dad. You came. You’re not… you didn’t marry her.”

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I know everything,” I said, stepping to her side and gripping her hand. “I saw the video. I know about the forged document. I know about Arthur.”

Christina shook her head weakly. “No, Dad. You don’t know everything.”

“What do you mean?”

She pointed a trembling finger toward the plastic belongings bag sitting on the visitor's chair. “Look in the bag. Arthur didn’t just drop me off. He left something to mock me.”

I walked over to the clear plastic bag holding her clothes from yesterday. I reached inside and pulled out a heavy, velvet-lined jewelry box. It wasn't Christina's. I popped it open.

Inside rested an antique silver pocket watch. The glass was cracked.

I recognized it instantly. It had belonged to Arthur’s father, a man who had gone bankrupt twenty years ago after a real estate deal with my company fell through. Arthur had always claimed his father lost the watch to pawn shops before he died.

“Arthur left this?” I asked.

“He showed it to me before they drugged me,” Christina rasped, fighting to stay awake. “He said… he said it was a family tradition to take what was owed.”

I looked at the watch, my mind spinning. “They forged my signature to transfer the estate.”

“No, Dad,” Christina gasped, sitting up slightly, her face twisting in pain. “They didn’t just transfer the estate. They didn’t want the business. They wanted the land. The property rights to the Prescott Building. Florence already sold it.”

The Prescott Building was the crown jewel of my life’s work. It housed three hundred employees and sat on the most valuable real estate in the city.

“She can’t sell it without my physical presence at the notary,” I said, denial creeping into my voice.

“She didn't need you,” Christina said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. “She used the power of attorney. The one you signed last month when you had your heart scare.”

I froze. A month ago, I had experienced mild chest pains. Florence had brought me a stack of medical proxy forms to sign in the hospital bed, crying, begging me to make sure she could make medical decisions if I was incapacitated.

I hadn’t read the bottom pages. I had signed a full financial power of attorney.

Before I could process the magnitude of the betrayal, the door to the hospital room clicked open.

I turned around.