Chapter 8 - THE SAFE HAVEN ON THE TENTH FLOOR
The tenth floor of Manhattan General’s private pavilion was a fortress of glass, polished marble, and quiet medical precision. Armed security officers stood at every elevator bank, ensuring that no unauthorized personnel crossed into the private suite area.
Inside Room 1004, Clara Monroe lay hooked up to advanced intravenous lines, an oxygen cannula resting gently beneath her nose. Her vital signs had stabilized under the aggressive care of the trauma team, though she remained in a deep, medically induced sleep to allow her exhausted body to recover from severe dehydration and physical trauma.
In the adjacent private sitting room, Lucy and Abby sat side-by-side on a plush leather sofa, two large bowls of warm chicken noodle soup resting on the low table in front of them. It was the first proper meal they had seen in days. They ate with quiet, disciplined care, occasionally looking up at the high glass windows that offered a panoramic view of the storm over Central Park.
Adrian stood near the glass, watching their reflections in the dark windowpane.
The double doors at the end of the corridor clicked open.
The sound of sharp, expensive high heels echoed against the marble floor, approaching the private suite with deliberate, unhurried authority.
Eleanor Walker stepped into the doorway of the sitting room.
At sixty-five, Eleanor was the picture of unyielding aristocratic power. She wore a tailored charcoal-gray wool coat over a pearl-white silk blouse, her silver hair styled in a flawless, structured wave. Her face was smooth, cold, and entirely unreadable—the face of a woman who had steered the Walker family through corporate wars, public scandals, and the sudden, suspicious death of her husband fifteen years prior.
Her sharp blue eyes swept across the room. They passed right over the expensive furniture, brushed past Adrian’s tall silhouette, and landed squarely on the two three-year-old girls sitting on the sofa.
May you like
Her lips thinned into a razor-thin line.
"So," Eleanor said, her voice smooth, controlled, and devoid of warmth. "The rumor from your boardroom was true. You brought Clara's street rats into my hospital wing."
