Chapter 6 - The Ice in My VeinsThe harsh fluorescent lights of the Saint Jude's Emergency Trauma Unit buzzed overhead as the medical team wheeled my gurney down the corridor. Heated blankets were wrapped tightly around my body, but the chill inside me felt deeper than bone—it felt permanent.
My father’s personal physician, Dr. Marcus Thorne, met us at the double doors of the Intensive Care Unit.
"Core body temperature is down to 93.2 degrees," the paramedic reported rapidly. "Mild hypothermia, acute physical distress, sharp abdominal pain following a fall onto stone. Fetal heart rate is elevated at 168 beats per minute, but steady."
"Get her into Bay 3," Dr. Thorne ordered, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he attached warm IV fluids to my arm. "Prepare a full obstetric ultrasound and a toxic screen immediately."
As they hooked monitors to my chest, my hand tightened around the edge of the mattress. My lower abdomen still throbbed with a dull, terrifying ache.
"Dr. Thorne... my baby," I gasped, my voice still raspy from the cold air and screaming. "Is she... is she alright?"
"Your daughter is a fighter, Clara," Dr. Thorne said gently, adjusting the warm thermal sleeve around my arm. "The amniotic sac cushioned her from the impact of the fall. But the extreme cold triggered localized uterine contractions. If we hadn't brought your body temperature back up when we did, you would have gone into full premature labor within the hour."
A shudder passed through me. I closed my eyes, resting a hand over my bump, feeling the faint, rhythmic movement inside.
The door to Bay 3 slid open. My father walked in.
Alvin Sterling did not look like a man in his sixties. Standing six-foot-two in a tailored charcoal coat, his steel-gray hair impeccably groomed, he radiated the quiet, terrifying authority that had made Sterling Maritime a global empire. But as his eyes fell on my pale face and IV lines, a flicker of raw, rare pain crossed his face.
"Dad," I whispered.
He moved to the side of the bed, taking my ice-cold hand in his large, warm palms.
"It’s over, Clara," he said, his voice low and raspy with suppressed rage. "Diego is in a holding cell at the county jail. The magistrate set his bail at three million dollars, and I have already ensured no bondsman in the state will touch it."
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I looked up into my father's sharp gray eyes. "Brenna said something before they arrested them, Dad. Up in the study... she looked at the camera and told me to ask you about Zurich. She said... she said you did something thirty years ago regarding the baby's trust."
My father’s hand stiffened slightly against mine. For a fraction of a second, the iron composure of Alvin Sterling cracked.
