Chapter 5 - The Return of the Prodigal Son
Tyler’s private car pulled up to the main entrance of St. Matthew’s Hospital at precisely 4:15 p.m., though he had spent the last hour frantically discovering that every single one of his professional touchpoints had vanished.
According to the security footage my father’s team piped directly to my tablet, Tyler had stormed through the front lobby of St. Matthew’s, looking disheveled, his designer linen shirt wrinkled from a commercial flight he was forced to book out of pocket after his private jet charter was canceled. He still wore a faint trace of glitter on his collar from Cassandra’s birthday gala—a pathetic souvenir of a weekend built on stolen funds.
“Where is my wife? Where are my children?” Tyler demanded of the front desk receptionist, his voice echoing across the tiled foyer where I had bled out four days earlier.
“Sir, patient records are confidential,” the receptionist replied professionally, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “If you are a family member, you need to check the maternity ward registry.”
“I am Tyler Vance! Chief Operating Officer of Hartwell Medical Logistics!” he roared, slamming his palm down on the marble counter. “My wife, Elena Hartwell, gave birth here four days ago! I demand to know which room she’s in!”
The receptionist didn’t even flinch. She pressed a silent call button beneath her desk, summoning two hospital security guards who materialized instantly on either side of him.
“Mr. Vance,” the head security guard said in a low, authoritative tone. “You have been flagged by hospital administration as an unauthorized visitor with active restraining directives from the patient’s legal guardian. You need to leave the premises immediately.”
Tyler froze, his face turning an ugly shade of crimson as onlookers turned to stare. “Restraining directives? Are you insane? My wife is upstairs! Those are *my* children!”
“She left four days ago... Isn’t she home?” the receptionist asked coolly, delivering the line with practiced precision.
The words hit Tyler like a physical blow. He staggered backward, colliding slightly with the brochure stand.
“Left?” he stammered, his voice cracking. “What do you mean she left? She had a C-section! She lost blood! Where would she go? She doesn't have the car—!”
“Mr. Vance, step away from the desk or we will remove you physically,” the security guard interrupted, grabbing Tyler firmly by the elbow.
Watching the live feed from the safety of Johns Hopkins, I took a slow sip of water. On the screen, Tyler was wrenching his arm away, shouting empty threats about lawsuits and board members, completely unaware that Marcus Thorne had already turned on him to save his own skin.
“He’s breaking down,” my father observed quietly, watching the tablet screen over my shoulder. “He genuinely believed you would be sitting in the recovery room waiting for him with folded hands and crying eyes.”
“Tyler has spent seven years constructing a reality where consequences don't apply to him,” I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. “He thought my devotion was weakness. He thought my trust was stupidity.”
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“What’s our next move?” Dad asked. “He’s heading toward his car. He’ll either come here—though security won't let him past the lobby—or he’ll go straight to the house and find the smart locks rejecting his fingerprint.”
“Let him go to the house,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “Let him stand on the front porch in the rain, pressing his thumb against a scanner that no longer recognizes him. It’s poetic justice.”
