Chapter 2 - The Emergency Room Trap
The neon lights of Northwestern Memorial’s emergency entrance buzzed with a dull, erratic hum as my black sedan slid up to the ambulance bay. The night air was biting, carrying the sharp scent of autumn rain off Lake Michigan, but my blood was running hot and fast.
I strode through automatic sliding doors with the poise of a prosecuting attorney walking into a courtroom. The triage nurse took one look at my charcoal blazer, my posture, and my cold, unblinking eyes, and silently pointed me toward trauma bay three at the end of the brightly lit corridor.
The heavy fabric curtain was drawn shut, but muffled sounds of misery leaked out into the hallway—a pathetic combination of high-pitched whimpering and muffled, panicked curses.
I didn't knock. I yanked the privacy curtain back with a sharp, decisive rip.
Richard’s face went instantly ghost-white, his skin taking on the sickly green tint of fluorescent hospital lighting. Beneath a thin, sterile paper hospital gown thrown haphazardly over them to maintain a shred of decency, he and Chloe were bolted together in a nightmarish, inseparable embrace.
Surrounding their gurney were three bewildered medical residents and an attending physician who were actively biting the insides of their cheeks to keep from exploding into laughter.
“Victoria,” Richard stammered, his voice cracking violently as he tried to shift his weight and only succeeded in eliciting a sharp yelp of pain from Chloe. “Please—oh God, Victoria, don't look at us like that. This is a massive, catastrophic misunderstanding—”
“Oh, absolutely,” I countered, my voice cutting through the sterile room like a scalpel. I crossed my arms, leaning lazily against the doorframe. “Please, do enlighten me, darling. Since when does your high-end real estate portfolio involve midnight anatomical tutorials with my brother’s wife?”
The trauma bay went dead, suffocatingly silent. The residents abruptly found the linoleum floor tiles deeply fascinating and began shuffling backward toward the exit.
Without breaking eye contact with my sweating, trapped husband, I tossed the thick manila envelope directly onto his lap. It landed with a heavy thud, spilling out glossy 8x10 photographs of Richard and Chloe checking into luxury boutique hotels in downtown Milwaukee, copies of joint offshore bank transfers, and a sleek black flash drive.
“What... what is this?” Chloe choked out, burying her head under the corner of a thin thermal blanket, her shoulders shaking with hysterical, high-pitched sobs.
“That is six months of your charming little affair,” I replied coldly, stepping closer to the gurney. “And that flash drive? That contains an audio recording of Richard bragging to one of his drinking buddies last month that he only married me for my voting shares in the family trust and my father’s corporate backing.”
Richard’s eyes bulged. “You bugged my office?”
“I run corporate security for a multi-billion-dollar enterprise, Richard,” I laughed softly, a dry, humorless sound. “Bugging a mahogany desk is child's play compared to what I do for a living.”
Chloe wailed, twisting violently beneath the sheets, trying to pull away from him, which only caused the industrial adhesive to tug tighter against their skin. “You said she was completely clueless! You said she was just a boring housewife who wouldn't notice if you drained her accounts!”
“Shut up, Chloe!” Richard roared, his face flushing a furious, mottled crimson. He glared up at me, desperation overriding his shame. “Victoria, you set us up! You planted that bottle in my bag! You knew what would happen!”
“I packed your travel bag, yes,” I admitted cheerfully, tilting my head. “I didn't force you to grab the wrong bottle in the dark, and I certainly didn't force you to slather industrial-grade bonding agent all over your anatomy during a moment of illicit passion. That was all pure, unadulterated engineering genius on your part.”
The attending physician cleared his throat awkwardly, holding a clipboard out toward me. “Mrs. Sterling? We really need your signature on the spousal consent and liability waiver so we can administer the chemical solvent and surgical separation agents. It’s... well, it’s quite an urgent medical situation.”
Before I reached for the pen, I pulled my cell phone from my blazer pocket, dialed a memorized ten-digit number, and put it on speakerphone.
It rang twice before a gruff, sleepy voice answered. “Hello? Victoria? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Marcus,” I said, my voice softening just enough to sound falsely apologetic. “Get dressed. You need to come down to Northwestern Memorial Hospital right now. It’s about Chloe.”
“What about her? Is she okay?” Marcus’s voice sharpened instantly with concern.
“She’s fine, physically speaking,” I replied smoothly. “Well, mostly. But she’s currently stuck to my husband in trauma room three. Bring a baseball bat if you think it will help.”
Twenty-five minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed down the fourth-floor corridor. Marcus burst through the emergency room doors, his hair disheveled, wearing a heavy winter coat thrown over plaid flannel pajama pants.
He took one stride into trauma bay three, his eyes locking onto the gurney where his wife and my husband were fused together beneath a single paper sheet.
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For three terrifying seconds, Marcus didn't make a sound. The air rushed out of his lungs in a sharp, rattling gasp. Then, a primal roar ripped from his throat.
He lunged forward like a freight train, his hands outstretched for Richard’s throat.
