Chapter 3 - The Inheritance of CrowsThe private waiting room of Chicago Children’s Memorial Hospital smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale black coffee. Outside the tall, reinforced glass windows, the city skyline glittered against the dark autumn night, a constellation of artificial light that offered no warmth.
Inside, the digital clock on the wall glowed red: 2:14 AM.
Sophie was sleeping now, her small head wrapped in clean white gauze, an IV drip feeding saline and mild pain relievers into her delicate arm. The doctor had confirmed a mild concussion, twelve stitches above her right ear, and severe bruising, but miraculous no internal bleeding or fractures. She was going to be okay. The sheer relief of that diagnosis had left me sitting in the faux-leather armchair, staring blankly at my blood-stained hands, feeling as though I had aged a decade in the span of four hours.
The heavy wooden door of the private suite clicked open.
I didn't even need to look up to know who it was. The sharp, expensive scent of sandalwood and old money preceded him. Arthur Price walked into the room like a man inspecting a factory floor he planned to liquidate. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his tie was loosened, his silver hair slightly disheveled, and his face carved from granite.
“You’ve caused quite a mess, Evelyn,” he said without preamble, walking over to the window and looking out at the city without casting a single glance toward Sophie’s bed.
“The door is behind you, Arthur,” I said, my voice flat. I refused to call him Dad. That title had expired the moment he told me to stop making a scene while my daughter bled on a wedding menu.
Arthur turned slowly, his jaw tight. “Preston has been denied bail. The judge—a personal friend of mine for twenty years—recused himself because the video was already circulating online. It’s on every news station in the Midwest. Twitter, TikTok, local broadcast. The Price Manufacturing stock dropped four percent before the Asian markets even opened.”
“Good,” I said simply.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He took two slow steps toward my chair, leaning down slightly, projecting the heavy-handed intimidation tactics that had terrorized his employees for decades. “You think you’ve won something here, don’t you? You think because your brother is sitting in a holding cell that you’ve somehow beaten us? Let me educate you on how the real world works, Evelyn. Preston is my heir. He holds seventy percent of the voting shares in the family trust. Even if he’s locked away for a few months, the company stays in our hands. You and that bastard child of yours will still leave this city with nothing.”
I let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. It was a dry, raspy sound that made Arthur pull back slightly, unsettled by my reaction.
“You still think I’m the same terrified nineteen-year-old girl you threw out of the house when I refused to sign away my college fund, don’t you?” I asked, finally raising my eyes to meet his.
Arthur’s expression flickered for a microsecond—just enough to show that he remembered that cold winter night fifteen years ago.
“You were a rebellious, ungrateful girl who threw her future away,” he spat.
“I was pregnant, Arthur. And I refused to let you force me into an abortion to protect your precious family image,” I corrected him, standing up from the chair. I wasn't shaking anymore. The terror had burned away, leaving behind pure, unadulterated resolve. “You thought by cutting me off, freezing my credit cards, and telling every bank in Illinois that I was blacklisted, I would crawl back and beg for scraps. But you made one critical mistake.”
“Oh? And what’s that?” Arthur scoffed, crossing his arms over his expensive shirt.
“You assumed I was the only one in this family who knew how to build something,” I said, walking over to my leather handbag resting on the side table. I reached inside and pulled out a sleek, heavy leather folder stamped with a golden seal from a firm downtown.
I tossed the folder onto the small coffee table between us. It landed with a heavy, definitive thud.
Arthur looked down at it, frowning. He reached out with one finger, flipped the cover open, and scanned the first page.
The color drained from his face so fast he looked as though he had been struck by lightning. His mouth opened, but no words came out. His hands began to violently shake as he flipped to the second page, then the third.
“This... this is impossible,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Vanguard Holdings... they don't buy family-controlled manufacturing firms... unless...”
“Unless someone quietly bought up fifty-one percent of their distressed debt over the last four years,” I finished for him, my voice smooth and icy. “Every bad loan your company took out to fund Preston’s failed real estate ventures? Every hidden liability you tried to sweep under the rug to keep your stock artificially inflated? I bought them all. Through a shell corporation. Under a name you never bothered to check.”
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Arthur stumbled backward, his hip hitting the edge of the hospital room’s small desk. He stared at me as if I were a ghost. “You... you’re... Apex Capital?”
“Surprise, Father,” I smiled, a cold, sharp expression that mirrored the one Preston had worn before his world came crashing down. “The daughter you erased didn't run away and fail. She survived. And as of 9:00 AM this morning—just a few hours from now—Apex Capital executes a hostile takeover of Price Manufacturing. By tomorrow afternoon, you and Preston won't just be broke. You’ll be homeless.”
