Chapter 3

Hot, brown coffee dripped through Finnegan's long fingers. It splattered onto the expensive Persian rug of the administrative office.

He tossed the crushed cup into a nearby trash can. He didn't bother wiping his hand.

He turned on his heel. His assistant, Alex, followed silently as Finnegan walked toward the private elevator, leaving the hospital behind.

Inside the consultation room, Emerson was gasping for air. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow jerks. She felt like she was drowning on dry land.

Dr. Finch sighed heavily. He pulled a single sheet of paper from his folder and handed it to her.

It was the estimated cost for the initial phase of the alternative targeted therapy.

Emerson took the paper. Her eyes scanned the bottom line.

Seven figures. A string of zeros that made her blood run cold.

"If we don't do the cord blood transplant, we have to rely on imported targeted drugs just to keep him alive," Dr. Finch said. "And I have to warn you, your insurance company just sent a denial notice. They consider it experimental."

Emerson bowed her head to the doctor. She gripped the paper so tightly it crumpled in her fist.

She turned and stumbled out of the room.

She pushed open the heavy metal fire door at the end of the hall and slipped into the dim stairwell.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the beeping machines and hospital noise.

Emerson's knees gave out. She slid down the rough concrete wall until she hit the cold stairs.

She buried her face in her knees. The dam broke.

A raw, agonizing sob tore from her throat, echoing loudly in the empty stairwell.

The fire door creaked open. Alden stepped inside.

He saw her curled up in the corner, shaking violently. Pain flashed across his face.

Alden walked down the steps and dropped to one knee beside her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook and a silver fountain pen.

"Emerson, look at me," Alden said. "I will sell my shares in the firm. I'll put the Long Island house on the market tomorrow. We will get this money."

Emerson lifted her head. Her face was wet with tears, but her eyes were suddenly hard.

She pushed his hand away.

"No," Emerson said, her voice cracking. "I can't drag you down anymore. You already lost your mother because of me. I won't let you lose your career."

Alden grabbed her by the shoulders. His grip was tight, almost painful.

"Why are you so stubborn?" he yelled. "You would rather watch him die than take my money?"

Emerson ripped herself out of his grip.

"I will not let my son's life be bought with your future!" she screamed back. Her throat burned.

Alden stared at her. He knew that tone. He knew her pride was the only armor she had left.

His voice softened. "Then why won't you go to his real father? Why are you so terrified of him?"

The question was a sharp knife. It sliced straight into the deepest, darkest part of Emerson's brain.

Her vision blurred. The cold stairwell vanished.

Suddenly, she was back in a Manhattan penthouse. Rain was lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Finnegan stood in front of her. He threw a massive check right at her pregnant belly.

"You are just a toy I used to kill time," Finnegan's voice echoed in her head, dripping with disgust. "Don't try to use a fake pregnancy to tie me down. It's pathetic, and it won't secure your place as Mrs. Mcconnell." The memory of his cold, dismissive eyes burned behind her eyelids. The sheer humiliation of being accused of fabricating a child, while his actual son was growing inside her, had nearly broken her spirit.

Emerson clutched her head. She let out a low, agonizing moan.

"Stop," she whimpered.

Her entire body began to shake. Cold sweat drenched the back of her shirt. She couldn't pull enough oxygen into her lungs. Hyperventilation set in.

Alden saw her eyes roll back slightly. He lunged forward and pulled her tightly against his chest.

"Breathe, Em. Just breathe," he whispered, rubbing her back in slow circles.

Slowly, the panic attack subsided. Emerson went limp in his arms.

Then, her eyes hardened into pure ice. She pushed Alden away and grabbed the handrail to pull herself up.

"I will make the money myself," she said. Her voice was dead.

One floor above them, standing in the shadows of the landing, a man in a janitor's uniform raised a small black camera.

A faint click echoed.

The camera captured the exact moment Alden held Emerson in a tight embrace.

Within seconds, the photo was transmitted directly to Finnegan Mcconnell's encrypted phone.