And now they were trying to pressure me while I was lying in a hospital bed with a newborn in my arms.
They had even valued my shares at barely one-fifth of what an outside buyer had offered.
They wanted me desperate.
They wanted me tired.
They wanted me to believe I had no choices.
But I had been preparing for this possibility long before Noah was born.
“You both need to leave,” I said.
My mother’s expression hardened.
“You are in no position to give orders.”
Then the recovery-room door opened.
Everyone turned.
A tall man wearing a dark, perfectly tailored coat stepped inside.
Behind him were a hospital administrator and two attorneys.
Elias Vale had arrived.
The change in the room was immediate.
His eyes found me first.
Then he saw Noah.
For the first time that morning, his expression softened.
He walked toward the bed, leaned down, kissed my forehead, and gently brushed one finger across our son’s cheek.
Noah stirred but did not wake.
Elias smiled faintly.
Then he turned toward my parents.
Every trace of warmth disappeared from his face.
“You were saying something,” he said calmly, “about my son not having a father?”
My mother froze.
The color began disappearing from her face.
“Elias Vale,” she whispered.
My father slowly lowered his arms.
For the first time since entering the hospital room, he looked uncertain.
Elias did not raise his voice.
