Chapter 2 - THE BABY’S HEARTBEATThey rushed me through two sets of double doors while Preston shouted my name behind us.
For the first time that morning, he sounded frightened.
I didn’t care.
“Where’s the heartbeat?” I asked.
Nobody answered quickly enough.
That silence nearly destroyed me.
A nurse named Maya helped lift me onto an examination bed while another attached monitors across my belly.
Nathaniel stayed near my shoulder.
“Look at me, Em.”
“Is she alive?”
“We’re checking.”
“Uncle Nate—”
“I know.”
The monitor crackled.
Static.
Numbers.
Then nothing.
I grabbed Nathaniel’s wrist.
“No.”
Maya moved one sensor.
“Give me one second.”
One second can be an entire lifetime when you’re waiting to hear your child.
Then it came.
Fast.
Strong.
Beautiful.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
I started sobbing.
“There she is,” Maya said.
My whole body collapsed against the mattress.
Nathaniel closed his eyes for half a second.
Even he had been afraid.
“Baby’s heart rate is reassuring,” the obstetrician said as she entered. “But you’re contracting, Emily. We need to determine whether the trauma triggered preterm labor.”
“I’m only thirty-four weeks.”
“We know.”
“Can you stop it?”
“We’ll do everything appropriate. First, I need you calm.”
I almost laughed.
Calm.
My husband’s mistress had kicked me in a hospital hallway.
My husband had apparently known she intended to pressure me into signing something.
And now my daughter might be born six weeks early.
Calm was no longer available.
The doors opened.
Preston walked in.
Nathaniel blocked him before he reached my bed.
“You’re not authorized to enter.”
“I’m her husband.”
“And this is a secure treatment area.”
“Emily.”
I turned my head toward the wall.
“Get out.”
“Sweetheart, listen to me.”
Sweetheart.
He hadn’t called me that in months.
“Get out.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
Every person in the room stopped moving.
I looked at him.
“What wasn’t?”
Preston realized his mistake instantly.
“I mean the argument.”
“What did Savannah mean when she said you told her I would sign?”
“Emily—”
“What am I supposed to sign?”
His gaze moved toward Nathaniel.
That was enough.
My uncle saw it too.
Nathaniel stepped forward.
“You have thirty seconds to leave before security removes you.”
Preston’s corporate mask returned.
“I’m not discussing my marriage with you.”
“Twenty-five.”
“You think because you run this hospital—”
“Twenty.”
Preston pointed at me.
“She is my wife.”
Nathaniel’s voice dropped.
“And she just told you to leave.”
Preston stared at me.
There was anger behind his eyes now.
Not heartbreak.
Not shame.
Anger.
He was losing control of the room, and Preston hated nothing more.
“I’ll be outside.”
“No,” I said.
He paused.
“I don’t want you outside.”
“Emily.”
“Go home.”
His jaw clenched.
Then he left.
Nathaniel waited until the door closed.
“What has he done?”
I wiped my face.
“I don’t know anymore.”
My uncle pulled a chair beside me.
For years, he had respected the distance between us.
My mother, Elaine Mercer, had been his younger sister.
After she died when I was twenty-one, Nathaniel became the closest thing I had to a parent.
But he never interfered in my marriage.
Partly because I wouldn’t let him.
Mostly because Preston had carefully convinced me that keeping my family separate was proof I had grown up.
I finally understood why.
“What project?” I asked.
Nathaniel’s expression changed.
“The Hartwell-Saint Vincent redevelopment.”
“I’ve heard Preston mention Saint Vincent.”
“He’s more than mentioned it. Hartwell Capital is leading the acquisition group.”
“And our family is involved?”
“Our foundation owns twelve acres at the center of the proposed development.”
I stared at him.
“My mother’s foundation?”
“Yes.”
I knew the Mercer Family Trust existed.
What I didn’t know was that it had become worth nearly nine hundred million dollars.
My mother had deliberately raised me outside that world.
She drove a ten-year-old Volvo.
We lived in a modest house.
She believed inherited wealth could distort a person before they learned who they were.
When she became ill, she told me Nathaniel would manage the trust until I turned thirty-five.
I had nearly forgotten.
My thirty-fifth birthday was four months away.
Nathaniel continued.
“Your mother structured the trust carefully. When you turn thirty-five, you become controlling trustee.”
“What does that have to do with Preston?”
“Saint Vincent needs our approval for a ninety-nine-year ground lease.”
My stomach tightened for a different reason.
“How much money?”
“For Hartwell?”
“Yes.”
“If the redevelopment closes as projected? Their group could control an asset worth several billion dollars.”
I stared at the door through which my husband had just disappeared.
“He married me four years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And he knew my mother was a Mercer.”
“Probably.”
“But I never told him about the trust.”
“He could have found enough public records to connect the families.”
A nurse adjusted my IV.
The contractions were beginning to space out.
My daughter’s heartbeat continued filling the room.
I held on to that sound.
“Why tomorrow?”
Nathaniel folded his hands.
“Because the foundation board was scheduled to vote on preliminary approval.”
“And I’m involved?”
“Not officially yet. But two weeks ago, I informed Preston’s legal team that because you assume control soon, I would not approve a ninety-nine-year agreement without your written acknowledgment.”
Everything inside me became still.
Savannah’s words returned.
You told me she’d sign.
“What document?”
“Likely a spousal acknowledgment or consent prepared by their attorneys.”
“I haven’t seen anything.”
Nathaniel’s face hardened.
“Then we have another problem.”
He reached for his phone.
“What?”
“I received an email yesterday from Hartwell’s legal counsel.”
My pulse accelerated.
“And?”
“They claimed your signed consent had already been obtained.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“I didn’t sign anything.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
Nathaniel looked at me.
“Because the signature they sent was dated last Thursday.”
I remembered last Thursday perfectly.
I had spent the entire day in the emergency department after experiencing dehydration and dizziness.
Preston never visited.
“I was here.”
“Yes.”
“So someone forged my signature.”
“That is what we’re going to determine.”
A knock came.
Nathaniel opened the door.
A hospital security supervisor stood outside.
“We have the footage.”
“What footage?”
The man looked at me.
“The hallway incident.”
“Was the camera working?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did it capture the kick?”
His expression told me before he answered.
“It captured everything.”
Nathaniel nodded.
“Preserve it. Multiple copies. No one receives access without legal approval.”
The supervisor hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The woman who assaulted Ms. Mercer is gone.”
My uncle frowned.
“What do you mean gone?”
“She left the hospital.”
“With Preston?”
“No.”
The supervisor looked uncomfortable.
“Mr. Hartwell stayed outside the secure unit.”
“Then who?”
“She left with a man from Hartwell Capital.”
Nathaniel and I looked at each other.
“What man?”
“According to our desk staff, he identified himself as Preston Hartwell’s chief legal officer.”
My heart sank.
That wasn’t someone taking Savannah home.
That was damage control.
Preston wasn’t panicking because his pregnant wife had been attacked.
His company was already moving pieces.
Thirty minutes later, my contractions slowed.
The obstetrician decided to keep me overnight for observation.
Nathaniel refused to leave.
Around noon, Maya brought me my phone.
Thirty-eight missed calls.
Most were from Preston.
Then came a text.
PRESTON: We need to talk before you do something neither of us can undo.
I stared at those words.
Not I’m sorry.
Not Is the baby safe?
A warning.
Another message arrived.
PRESTON: Savannah lost control. I can fix this.
I typed slowly.
ME: What did you forge?
The typing bubble appeared.
Vanished.
Appeared again.
Then:
PRESTON: Nothing.
I took a screenshot.
ME: What document did you expect me to sign?
No answer.
Five minutes later, someone knocked on my hospital door.
I expected Nathaniel.
Instead, a woman in a gray business suit entered carrying a leather folder.
She was around fifty, with intelligent eyes and the exhausted expression of someone who had spent her career watching rich people create unnecessary disasters.
“Emily Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Laura Chen. I’m general counsel for the Mercer Foundation.”
She closed the door.
“Your uncle asked me to come.”
“Why?”
She placed the folder on my blanket.
“Because we reviewed the consent Hartwell Capital submitted.”
She opened it.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Emily Mercer Hartwell.
The signature looked almost perfect.
Almost.
I touched the paper.
“I didn’t sign this.”
“I believe you.”
“How?”
Laura turned to the final page.
“There were two witnesses.”
I read the names.
One belonged to Preston’s executive assistant.
The other made my breath stop.
Savannah Reed.
Laura watched me carefully.
“That isn’t the worst part.”
“What is?”
“The document contains a provision you probably never would have approved.”
She pointed to paragraph fourteen.
I read it once.
Then again.
If the development closed before my thirty-fifth birthday, my future authority over the relevant trust assets would be delegated for ten years.
To whom?
My husband.
Preston Hartwell.
I looked up.
“He wasn’t trying to get my permission.”
“No.”
May you like
Laura’s voice was quiet.
“He was trying to take your control before you ever realized you had it.”
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