Chapter 3

The red light above the emergency room doors burned like a warning sign.

Daryl sat slumped on the hard plastic chair in the hallway of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. His hands rested on his knees, stained with the dried blood from his mother's cracked lips during the compressions.

Cassie huddled against his chest. She was sobbing quietly, her tiny fists gripping the fabric of his cheap shirt so tightly her knuckles were white.

A chaotic, aggressive march of footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.

Beatrice Doyle, Blaire's mother, led the charge. She wore an expensive mink shawl draped over her shoulders. Her husband, Preston, and her son, Jaxon, flanked her like bodyguards.

The moment Beatrice saw Daryl, her face twisted in disgust. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her purse and pressed it against her nose, as if the very air around him was contaminated.

Jaxon walked straight up to Daryl and kicked the metal trash can next to the plastic chairs. The loud crash echoed down the hall. Several nurses poked their heads out of nearby rooms, glaring at the noise.

"Nice trick," Jaxon sneered, looking down at Daryl. "Having the old lady fake a heart attack to stall the divorce. Real classy."

Daryl snapped his head up. The pure, unfiltered violence in his eyes hit Jaxon like a physical blow. Jaxon swallowed hard and instinctively took a step back, his shoulders hitting the wall.

Preston stepped forward, puffing out his chest. He adopted the tone of a corporate dictator.

"Do not try to intimidate the heir of the Doyle family with your thuggish behavior," Preston warned sternly. "The Doyle Group rings the bell at the New York Stock Exchange next month. We will not tolerate any negative PR involving a spouse."

Blaire walked down the hallway from the opposite direction. She held a fresh cup of black coffee in her hand. Her face was perfectly composed, the mask of absolute rationality firmly back in place.

Cassie saw her mother. She wriggled out of Daryl's arms and ran toward Blaire, wrapping her arms around Blaire's legs.

"Mommy, please don't let them send Grandma away," Cassie begged, tears streaming down her face.

Blaire looked down at her daughter's wet, pleading face. Her hand trembled. A single drop of hot black coffee spilled over the rim of the cup and landed on the toe of her designer heel.

For a fraction of a second, the Aethelred Method cracked. A sliver of human hesitation showed in her eyes.

Beatrice saw it instantly. She lunged forward, grabbed Cassie by the arm, and roughly shoved the child back toward Daryl.

"Think about the Montgomery family, Blaire," Beatrice hissed sharply. "Think about the billions Estevan brings to the table."

The words acted like a switch. The crack in Blaire's mind sealed shut. Her eyes turned back to stone.

She handed the coffee to her assistant and walked over to Daryl, looking down at him from her high heels.

"The resuscitation fees here are astronomical," Blaire stated, her voice flat. "Without my signature and my insurance, you cannot even afford the deposit for tonight."

Daryl let out a low, dry laugh. He looked at her, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"Are you holding my mother's life hostage to make me sign?"

Preston chimed in from the side. "It is called commercial leverage. Something a bottom-feeder like you will never understand."

The heavy doors of the emergency room pushed open. The attending physician walked out, his face grim, scanning the hallway for family.

"Marlene Bush is stabilized, but she suffered a severe panic-induced cardiac event," the doctor announced. "She needs to be moved to the ICU immediately."

The doctor handed Daryl a long, printed estimate. The total at the bottom was hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Daryl glanced at the numbers, his expression unchanging. He had a supplementary credit card from Blaire in his wallet, but using it meant accepting her twisted charity. More importantly, he possessed his own hidden resources that could buy this entire hospital in a heartbeat. He refused to bend his spine for her manipulative games.

Jaxon whistled loudly. He crossed his arms, a sickening grin on his face, waiting for Daryl to break down and beg.

Daryl did not even look at the paper again. He kept his eyes locked on Blaire. The look he gave her was completely devoid of anger. It was just an endless, freezing void of absolute disappointment.

Daryl stood up. He gently pushed Cassie toward a passing nurse. "Watch her for one minute, please."

He walked right up to Blaire. He stopped so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Daryl leaned in. His voice was a deadly whisper, meant only for her ears.

"Your commercial empire," Daryl said, the words vibrating in his chest, "is nothing but a pile of trash I can crush whenever I want."

Blaire felt a sharp prick of unease at the absolute dominance in his tone. She quickly pushed the feeling down, convincing herself it was just the pathetic bluff of a desperate man.