Chapter 2 - THE MAN AT THE HOSPITAL DOORJake recovered quickly.
Men like him always did.
Shock lasted only until they found a new lie.
“She’s exhausted,” he told the nurses. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
His eyes snapped toward me.
“Emma.”
The warning in my name was familiar.
Dante stepped closer to him.
“You will not address her that way.”
Jake’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t know anything about us.”
“I know she moved backward when you offered your hand.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves enough.”
A hospital security officer approached, but Dante’s man intercepted him and spoke quietly. Whatever he said caused the officer to stop several feet away.
I wondered how many doors opened for Dante because of respect.
And how many opened because of fear.
A nurse placed me in a wheelchair.
“I can walk.”
“You nearly collapsed again,” she said.
Jake moved toward us.
Dante blocked him.
“I’m her emergency contact.”
“Not anymore,” I said.
The words left my mouth before I had planned them.
Jake stared at me.
“What?”
“You’re not my emergency contact anymore.”
A small sentence.
A massive rebellion.
He laughed, but the sound held no humor.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
For once, he was right.
I didn’t understand.
I only knew that going home with him would be the end of whatever courage had appeared inside me.
The nurse pushed me through the doors.
Dante remained outside.
So did Jake.
The glass doors closed between us, but I could still see them.
Two men in the rain.
One who claimed to love me.
One who had no reason to care.
Jake spoke first. His mouth moved rapidly. Dante listened without interrupting.
Then Jake pointed toward me.
Dante’s expression changed.
The next moment, Jake lunged.
He never reached Dante.
The man with the burned jaw caught Jake’s arm, twisted it behind his back, and forced him against the hood of the sedan.
Hospital security rushed forward.
Dante did not touch him.
He simply stood there as Jake shouted.
“Emma! Tell them to let me go!”
I turned away.
The nurse pushed me down a quiet corridor and into an examination room.
A doctor entered less than five minutes later.
She was in her early forties, with dark hair tied at the nape of her neck and tired eyes that had seen too much to be easily fooled.
“Emma, I’m Dr. Maya Chen.”
She sat rather than standing over me.
That small choice mattered.
“Mr. Moretti says you fainted and may have injuries. I need to ask whether you consent to an examination.”
“Yes.”
“Do you consent to him being present?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
“Then he will remain outside.”
I looked toward the door.
“You can tell him that?”
Dr. Chen’s eyebrows rose.
“This is my examination room.”
For the first time that night, I almost smiled.
She helped me remove my uniform blazer and shirt. When the fabric lifted over my ribs, her expression tightened.
Bruises covered more skin than I had realized.
Some were yellow.
Some purple.
One near my hip was nearly black.
Dr. Chen photographed each injury after receiving my permission. She documented their shapes, sizes, and likely ages.
“These did not happen during one fall,” she said.
“No.”
“Did the same person cause them?”
“Yes.”
“How long has this been happening?”
I stared at the wall.
“About two years.”
She did not gasp.
She did not ask why I stayed.
She did not make me defend my own captivity.
“Any injuries to your head?”
“A few.”
“Loss of consciousness?”
“Once.”
“Strangulation?”
My silence answered.
Dr. Chen stopped writing.
“Emma, strangulation is one of the strongest indicators that domestic violence may become fatal.”
The word fatal landed quietly.
Jake had never said he would kill me.
He said I would make him do something terrible.
He said he sometimes forgot his strength.
He said no one else would tolerate me.
I had spent years translating threats into mistakes.
Dr. Chen ordered scans and blood tests. When she pressed near my left side, I cried out.
“Likely two fractured ribs.”
“I have to work tomorrow.”
“You will not be working tomorrow.”
“I need the money.”
“You also need to remain alive.”
A technician arrived with a mobile ultrasound machine.
The sight of the screen made my stomach twist.
I remembered another room.
Another monitor.
A heartbeat.
Then silence.
Dr. Chen noticed my hands shaking.
“You’ve been pregnant?”
I nodded.
“Two months ago.”
Her face softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“The doctor said it was spontaneous.”
“Was there trauma shortly before?”
I looked down.
“Jake hit me.”
“Where?”
“My abdomen. My back.”
“Did you tell the emergency physician?”
“No.”
Dr. Chen remained silent for several seconds.
Then she said, “I can’t determine causation without the earlier records, but trauma may have contributed.”
The room lost its air.
May have contributed.
The words were clinical.
Careful.
They still tore something open inside me.
I had wondered.
Of course I had wondered.
But wondering in the dark was different from hearing a doctor say it beneath fluorescent lights.
I pressed my hands over my mouth.
A sob escaped anyway.
Dr. Chen moved closer.
“None of this was your fault.”
I shook my head.
“I stayed.”
“That does not make you responsible for what he did.”
“I lied for him.”
“That was survival.”
“I let him convince me—”
“You survived him,” she repeated. “There is a difference.”
A knock sounded.
Dr. Chen opened the door only a few inches.
Dante stood outside.
His white shirt sleeve was stained with rain. A thin line of blood crossed one knuckle.
“Is she stable?” he asked.
“I can’t discuss her condition without permission.”
He looked past Dr. Chen at me.
I wiped my face.
“You can tell him.”
Dr. Chen opened the door farther.
“Two probable rib fractures, severe dehydration, malnutrition, anemia, and multiple injuries consistent with repeated assault. We’re arranging imaging.”
Dante’s gaze moved over me.
The stillness returned.
Dr. Chen continued.
“She also needs somewhere safe tonight.”
“I have somewhere.”
“I’m not going to your house,” I said.
“No.”
The immediate answer surprised me.
Dante stepped into the room but stayed near the door.
“I own several furnished apartments used for visiting employees. You may choose one. Female security, no one enters without your permission.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“Then consider it temporary accommodation.”
“I can’t repay you.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“Everyone asks eventually.”
Something passed through his eyes.
“Then you have known the wrong people.”
Before I could answer, a hospital administrator appeared behind him.
“Mr. Moretti, the police are asking to speak with Ms. Foster.”
My heart accelerated.
Jake had probably already created a story.
Dante looked at me.
“No one enters unless you agree.”
Dr. Chen nodded.
“He’s right.”
I never expected to hear a doctor say that about Dante Moretti.
“Did Jake call them?” I asked.
The administrator hesitated.
“They were called because of the altercation outside.”
Dante’s bloodied knuckle suddenly made sense.
“You hit him?”
“No.”
“Then why are you bleeding?”
“He had a ring.”
The man with the burned jaw appeared.
“He struck Mr. Moretti first.”
“Where is Jake?”
“Gone,” the man said.
The word chilled me.
“Gone where?”
“He was released after refusing treatment. Police did not have grounds to hold him.”
My phone vibrated on the chair.
One message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
A photograph filled the screen.
My mother sat in her treatment chair at St. Catherine’s, asleep beneath a gray blanket.
The image had been taken minutes earlier.
Below it were six words.
COME HOME, OR SHE COMES WITH ME.
The phone slipped from my hand.
Dante caught it before it struck the floor.
He read the message.
His expression became unreadable.
Then he turned to the man at the door.
“Call St. Catherine’s.”
The man already had his phone out.
“Tell them no one moves Eleanor Foster. Lock the oncology floor.”
“How do you know her name?” I asked.
Dante looked at me.
“You said your mother was receiving treatment.”
“I never told you her first name.”
Silence.
Dr. Chen glanced between us.
Dante handed my phone back slowly.
“I know more about your family than I intended to tell you tonight.”
Fear replaced the fragile relief inside me.
“What do you know?”
His eyes settled on mine.
“Your brother is Liam Foster.”
“Yes.”
“He’s serving twelve years for the Calumet Harbor robbery.”
My throat tightened.
“How do you know that?”
“Because the money he was accused of stealing belonged to one of my companies.”
The machines hummed around us.
May you like
Dante took one step closer.
“And because I never believed your brother stole it.”
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