Chapter 2 - THE BABY’S HEARTBEAT
The ambulance ride lasted eleven minutes.
It felt like an hour.
One paramedic kept a hand near my shoulder without touching unless necessary.
The other asked questions.
Thirty-two weeks?
“Thirty-three tomorrow.”
Any bleeding?
“No.”
Fluid leakage?
“No.”
Contractions?
“I don’t know.”
Loss of consciousness?
“No.”
Nausea?
“A little.”
Baby moving?
“Yes.”
I said it too quickly.
The paramedic noticed.
“We’ll check properly.”
Richard followed in another car.
Not inside the ambulance.
I appreciated that.
Ethan tried to come.
Police stopped him.
I saw Officer Grant speaking to him under the portico while Vivian stood rigid near the broken wineglass.
My father’s men remained outside.
No cinematic takeover.
Police controlled the scene.
At the hospital, obstetric triage and emergency medicine divided me between them.
Head injury.
Pregnancy.
Both mattered.
A fetal monitor wrapped around my abdomen.
Static.
Then—
fast rhythm.
My daughter.
I started crying.
The nurse adjusted the band.
“Heart rate looks reassuring so far.”
“So she’s okay?”
“So far.”
That distinction became sacred.
No promises medicine could not make.
The obstetrician ordered prolonged monitoring because significant maternal trauma can cause complications even without direct abdominal impact.
The emergency physician examined my head.
CT?
Because I was pregnant, they discussed risks and benefits instead of simply refusing imaging.
My neurologic examination was reassuring.
No loss of consciousness.
No repeated vomiting.
No focal deficit.
They chose observation first.
The swelling behind my head remained tender.
My cheek reddened.
My hip bruised.
No fractures suspected.
Richard arrived twenty minutes later.
He stood outside until a nurse asked whether I wanted him in.
I almost said no.
Then:
“Yes.”
He entered alone.
Overcoat gone.
Suit jacket open.
The authority he carried everywhere seemed smaller beside a hospital bed.
He stopped six feet away.
“Ava.”
“Hi.”
Six years inside one syllable.
His eyes moved toward the monitor.
“Is she—”
“Heartbeat is okay.”
His shoulders lowered.
Only slightly.
“Good.”
I looked at his right hand.
The knuckles were red.
“You shouldn’t have hit Ethan.”
“I know.”
That surprised him.
Maybe he expected gratitude.
“I’m not saying I’m angry you stopped him.”
“I know.”
“But the police decide what happens now.”
“Yes.”
Again.
No argument.
My father had changed.
Or had learned to wait.
I did not know which.
“Why were you there?”
His face tightened.
“Because Julian Cross called me.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
“Blackwood Foundation counsel.”
“I’ve never met him.”
“He found your name in tomorrow’s transaction documents.”
My stomach tightened.
“What transaction?”
Richard looked toward the nurse.
Then at me.
“Not tonight unless you want it.”
“I want it.”
The nurse interrupted.
“Not if it raises her blood pressure while we’re evaluating trauma.”
Richard actually nodded.
“Fair.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I breathed.
The baby kicked.
Hard enough that the monitor shifted.
My hand went to my belly.
Richard saw.
His face changed again.
“Girl?”
I had never told him I was pregnant.
He knew only because someone had found me.
“Yes.”
His eyes filled.
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“I meant due date.”
“Oh.”
We both almost smiled.
“September twenty-third.”
He nodded as though memorizing coordinates.
Then:
“What’s her name?”
I hesitated.
“Rose.”
My mother’s middle name.
Richard looked away.
There it was.
The grave between us.
My mother, Evelyn Hale, died six years earlier.
Cancer.
Not conspiracy.
Not assassination.
The strongest man I knew had been powerless against metastasis.
He responded by trying to manage everything else.
My medical appointments.
Funeral.
Estate.
Security.
Where I should live.
Who should accompany me.
I responded by leaving.
We both called it survival.
Neither called.
Now he was here because my husband hit me.
The nurse adjusted my IV.
Then Officer Grant appeared.
“Mrs. Blackwood?”
“Yes.”
“May I speak with you briefly?”
Richard stood.
“I’ll go.”
Grant looked at him.
“Actually, I’ll need a statement from you too.”
Richard nodded.
I gave mine first.
No exaggeration.
Ethan slapped me.
I fell.
Hit my head.
He raised his hand again.
Richard entered and punched him.
Grant asked:
“Has Ethan struck you before?”
I stared at the blanket.
“No.”
“Threatened?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He grabs things. Blocks doors. Tells me I’m not leaving arguments.”
“Has he restrained you?”
“Not physically for long.”
Grant waited.
I corrected myself.
“Yes. Blocking a door so someone cannot leave is restraining movement.”
“Any medical care previously?”
“No.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Vivian.”
“Does she intervene?”
“No.”
Grant wrote.
Then:
“Do you want temporary protective conditions requested?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Richard looked at me.
Pride?
Grief?
Something.
Grant continued.
“Mr. Hale also informed us there may be financial documents relevant to coercive control.”
I looked at Richard.
“What did you bring?”
He answered carefully.
“Not your inheritance.”
That was too specific.
I went cold.
“I didn’t ask about inheritance.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Mistake.
“What inheritance?”
Grant looked between us.
Richard said:
“Ava, I should have told you years ago.”
“No.”
“I didn’t know Blackwood had involved it until today.”
“What?”
He stopped.
Because he had promised the nurse.
Because the monitor showed my pulse rising.
Then my phone, sealed in a hospital property bag, began vibrating repeatedly.
The nurse handed it to me after confirming I could use it.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Mostly unknown.
One from Vivian.
Six from Ethan.
One text from a number I did not recognize.
DO NOT SIGN ANYTHING TOMORROW.
Another came immediately.
YOUR MOTHER BUILT THE GALA CLAUSE TO PROTECT YOU FROM THE BLACKWOODS.
I stared at the screen.
Richard’s face changed when he saw it.
“Who sent that?”
“I don’t know.”
May you like
Then a third message.
ASK VIVIAN WHY SHE HAS BEEN CALLING YOU AN ORPHAN FOR TWO YEARS WHEN SHE KNEW EXACTLY WHO YOUR FATHER WAS.
