Derek stood frozen, the briefcase still hanging from his hand.
Veronica rolled her eyes theatrically. “This is pathetic,” she whispered to Derek, loud enough for Emma to hear. “Her imaginary daddy is coming to save her.”
Emma looked through Veronica as if she were a shadow on a wall.
“St. Michael’s Hospital,” Emma said into the phone. “Room 407. Placental abruption at thirty weeks. I’m hemorrhaging. They won’t authorize surgery without insurance approval. Derek refused to sign.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t dramatize. She recited facts the way powerful people did when they expected obedience from reality itself.
On the other end, her father exhaled once.
A sound like a steel door unlocking.
“Who is with you?” Richard asked.
“My husband,” Emma said, and there was a strange emptiness in the word now. “And his mistress. She’s laughing.”
Derek flinched. Veronica’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
Emma continued, “Send Thompson.”
Another pause.
Emma’s eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for impact. She remembered Thompson, the family’s chief legal strategist, the man her father used when he wanted outcomes, not arguments.
“Yes,” Emma said, voice softer. “I know what that means. Yes, I’m sure.”
Her father’s voice sharpened, grief edged with fury. “You should never have been alone.”
Emma swallowed, and for one moment her calm cracked, revealing a daughter who had wanted to be loved without being owned. “I thought I could build something real,” she whispered. “I thought… if he loved me without the money, it would mean something.”
“It means something,” Richard said. “It means you tried.”
Emma opened her eyes. “Authorize the surgical team immediately.”
“Already done,” her father replied, voice snapping into command. “A helicopter is en route. The hospital’s chief will meet you in minutes. Emma… stay awake.”
The line clicked off.
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