Chapter 6 - The Iron Gates of Lakeshore
The Chicago wind howled off Lake Michigan, driving a freezing sleet against the tinted windows of Grant’s town car as it pulled up to the emergency entrance of Lakeshore Women’s Hospital.
Grant threw open the door before the driver could park, running through the sliding glass doors into the antiseptic lobby. He strode up to the front desk, his tuxedo jacket rumpled, his tie slightly crooked—a far cry from the immaculate billionaire who had graced the front pages of the financial press just twelve hours earlier.
"Natalie Mercer," Grant demanded, leaning over the counter. "Room number. Now."
The receptionist looked up from her computer, her expression cold and professional. "Are you Mr. Mercer?"
"Yes. I'm her husband."
"Mrs. Mercer has left strict instructions," the receptionist said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Immediate family only. Rebecca Ellis and designated hospital staff."
"Listen to me," Grant said, his voice rising in panic as he gripped the edge of the counter. "I am her husband. I have a right to see my wife and my child."
"Your rights as a husband were apparently exercised elsewhere last night, Mr. Mercer," a cool, sharp voice cut in from behind him.
Grant turned around. Dr. Hannah Price stood near the elevators, her arms crossed over her white lab coat, her eyes piercing him with undisguised contempt.
"Doctor Price," Grant breathed, taking a step toward her. "How is Natalie? How is my daughter? I want to see them."
"Your daughter's name is Chloe," Hannah said, walking slowly toward him until she was standing just inches away. "She weighs two pounds, four ounces. She spent the first hours of her life fighting for every single breath while her father was drinking champagne and posing for cameras with another woman."
The words hit Grant like a physical blow to the stomach. He staggered back a step, gripping the back of a plastic waiting chair. "I didn't know. Her assistant—that is, my colleague—she deleted the message. I would never have stayed if I knew—"
"That is the coward's excuse, Grant," Hannah interrupted coldly. "Natalie told you she was bleeding. She told you she couldn't feel the baby moving. You heard her voice, and you chose to hang up the phone. A machine can delete a text message, Mr. Mercer, but it cannot erase a choice."
"Please," Grant whispered, his voice cracking as the iron facade of the billionaire completely dissolved into dust. "Just let me see her. Let me see Natalie. I need to explain."
"You can explain to a judge," a new voice echoed from the elevator corridor.
Grant turned to see Rebecca Ellis walking toward them, holding a small paper cup of coffee. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, but her expression was fierce and unyielding.
"Rebecca," Grant pleaded, taking a step forward. "Please. Let me talk to my wife."
"Your wife doesn't want to talk to you, Grant," Rebecca said, stopping a few feet away from him. "When Natalie woke up from surgery, do you know what the first thing she asked for was? Not you. She asked if our baby was alive. And when she realized you weren't there, she didn't cry for you. She finally understood something the rest of us have known for years."
Rebecca reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a heavy gold platinum band, and tossed it onto the reception desk. It clattered against the marble surface, rolling to a stop right in front of Grant's eyes.
"She hired Marcus Vance this morning," Rebecca said quietly. "Divorce papers are being drawn up as we speak. Along with full custody filings for Chloe."
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Grant stared at the gold ring gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His empire, worth four billion dollars, suddenly felt like a cage built on shifting sand, collapsing in on him from every side.
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