Chapter 8 - THE CORRIDOR STANDOFF
Grant stepped into the center of the wide hospital corridor, placing his towering frame directly in front of Room 418’s doorway like a wall of solid iron. He folded his hands neatly behind his back, his posture relaxed, his dark eyes cold and unreadable as he watched the delegation approaching down the hall.
Walking at the head of the group was Grant’s mother, sixty-three years old—a woman of immense wealth, ruthless political power, and terrifying influence. Dressed in an expensive dark velvet coat with a pearl necklace gleaming beneath the cold fluorescent lights, she walked with the regal confidence of a queen inspecting her domain. Flanking her were two broad-shouldered security operatives wearing dark suits and earpieces.
She stopped ten feet short of Grant, her sharp blue eyes scanning his unbothered face with a mix of anger and calculated concern.
"Grant," his mother said, her voice smooth, refined, and entirely devoid of warmth. "What on earth are you doing in a public hospital maternity wing at two in the morning? Your security team called me in a panic when you left the estate without your primary escort."
Grant didn't blink. He kept his hands behind his back, his jaw set in a hard, impassive line.
"I had personal business to attend to, Mother," Grant replied, his voice a cool, flat baritone that bounced off the linoleum floor. "I don't recall needing my security team's permission to take a drive."
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His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. Her gaze drifted past Grant’s shoulder, landing squarely on the brass number '418' mounted on the wooden door behind him.
"Personal business?" she echoed, a dark, dangerous edge creeping into her tone. "In the maternity ward? Don't tell me you've fallen for another one of that girl's desperate ploys."
