Chapter 3 - The Emergency Protocol
The emergency room at Albany Medical Center was a blur of bright lights, shouting voices, and the sharp, metallic smell of antiseptic.
"Surgical site dehiscence!" a doctor shouted as they wheeled my gurney through the double doors. "We have a severe post-operative infection, possibly septic. Start her on broad-spectrum antibiotics immediately and prep OR three!"
"Her temperature is 104.2," a nurse cried out, cutting away the wet, blood-soaked grey dress. "The incision has completely opened. There’s necrotic tissue."
I felt hands on me, needles piercing my skin, the cold sensation of IV fluids rushing into my veins. The pain was fading now, replaced by a heavy, gray fog that threatened to drag me under.
"Ma'am, can you hear me?" a police officer was walking alongside the gurney, his notepad out. "We need a name. Who did this to you?"
"Willow," I breathed. "Willow... Vale. But my real name... is Willow Vance."
The officer stopped walking.
Even in my semi-conscious state, I saw the sudden change in his expression. The name Vance carried a specific, undeniable weight in the state of New York. My father’s logistics and shipping conglomerate practically ran the state's infrastructure.
"Vance?" the officer asked, leaning closer. "Are you Julian Vance's daughter?"
"Yes," I whispered. "My phone... is in Derek Vale’s car. A white Chevy Tahoe. He... he threw me out."
"Get the chief of police on the line," the officer immediately directed his partner, his voice turning incredibly sharp. "We have a code-red domestic assault involving the Vance family. Locate that vehicle now."
Before I could say anything else, the black rubber mask of the anesthesia machine was pressed over my face. The sweet, chemical scent filled my lungs, and the world finally went dark.
Five hours later, the fog began to clear.
I woke up in a private recovery suite. The walls were a soft, muted beige, and the window showed the first pale blue light of dawn breaking over the city. The constant, agonizing burning in my abdomen was gone, replaced by a dull, manageable ache. A sterile, clean bandage was taped neatly across my stomach.
Sitting in the leather armchair beside my bed was a man.
He was dressed in a pristine, charcoal-grey three-piece suit. His silver hair was perfectly combed, and his face, though lined with age and a deep, terrible exhaustion, was as sharp and commanding as I remembered.
My father.
He was staring at his hands, his knuckles white as he gripped a small, clear plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was the damp, crumpled twenty-dollar bill Artie the tow-truck driver had taken from my hand.
"Dad," I whispered.
Julian Vance looked up. The moment his eyes met mine, the cold, aristocratic mask he wore to run his empire shattered. He stood up, his steps hurried, and took my hand in his. His palms were warm and dry.
"Willow," he said, his voice thick with an emotion I had never heard from him before. "My beautiful girl."
"I’m sorry," I sobbed, the tears finally spilling over my cheeks. "I’m so sorry, Dad. You were right about him. You were right."
"Shh," he murmured, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "Do not apologize. Not to me. The only thing that matters is that you are alive. The doctors said if that driver hadn't found you when he did, the infection would have entered your bloodstream by morning. You would have died on that highway."
His eyes drifted back to the plastic bag in his hand. His expression hardened into something so cold, so utterly lethal, that it made the temperature in the room feel like it had dropped ten degrees.
"A twenty-dollar bill," my father said, his voice dropping into a quiet, terrifying register. "He threw twenty dollars at my daughter’s face and left her to die in a ditch so he could go to a party with his secretary."
"He... he didn't want me to ruin his promotion," I whispered. "He said I smelled like death. He said he married down."
Julian Vance let out a slow, quiet breath. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. He tapped the screen once.
"Marcus," my father said into the receiver. "It's time. Begin the protocol on Derek Vale. I want him stripped of everything by noon. No bank is to touch his debt. No company is to hire him. And call the District Attorney. I want a personal kidnapping and attempted murder charge on his desk within the hour."
May you like
He hung up, then looked at me, a small, cold smile touching his lips.
"He wanted a promotion, Willow," my father said softly. "Let’s see how he likes being promoted to inmate number forty-five."
