Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary at Saint JudeBy 2:00 PM that afternoon, the private, high-security maternity wing of Saint Jude Memorial Hospital in downtown Chicago was sealed like an iron fortress.
Six broad-shouldered private security guards wearing dark suits stood posted outside Suite 402, while two armed local sheriff's deputies guarded the elevator banks.
I stood at the far end of the long, sterile hallway, wearing my rumpled, rain-soaked suit, my dark hair disheveled, my eyes bloodshot, my hands trembling violently in my pockets.
Every time I attempted to step toward Suite 402, the guards moved silently, their broad bodies forming an impenetrable wall across the corridor.
"Please..." I choked out, my voice cracking into a raw, pathetic plea that echoed against the white walls. "I just want to see my children... I just want to hold Ethan and Eva... please!"
The heavy oak doors of Suite 402 opened quietly.
Stepping out into the hallway, wearing a dark cashmere sweater over dark maternity trousers, her face pale but her hazel eyes shining with a quiet, radiant, and sovereign dignity, was Claire.
Behind her stood Dr. Rebecca Sullivan—the lead neonatologist—and Attorney Marcus Vance.
When Claire saw me standing at the end of the hall, she didn't yell. She didn't cry. She looked at me with a quiet, weightless indifference that stripped away every remaining layer of my multi-billion-dollar ego.
I took a fast, clumsy step forward, my hands raised in a groveling, desperate gesture. "Claire! My God, Claire! Forgive me! I was an idiot! I was blind! I love you! I love Ethan and Eva! Let me see our babies... please!"
Claire stopped five feet from me.
"Our daughter almost stopped breathing at three-sixteen this morning, Adrian," Claire spoke softly. Her voice possessed a velvet, unyielding power that froze the air in the corridor. "Dr. Sullivan had to insert an oxygen line into her tiny lungs while I held her hand."
Tears of wild, desperate agony burst from my eyes, cutting clean tracks through the dust on my face. "I'm sorry, Claire! I'll do anything! I'll fire Sienna! I'll give up the empire! Just let me hold my children!"
"You chose a penthouse over your daughter's breath, Adrian," Claire reminded him flatly, every word dropped into the quiet hallway like a block of ice. "You chose a mistress's tears over your son's first cry."
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Attorney Marcus Vance stepped forward, pulling a thick Manila binder bound by red judicial seals from his briefcase, handing the legal papers directly to me.
"Adrian Knox," Vance announced, his baritone booming through the corridor. "You have been officially served with a Petition for Absolute Divorce, a Permanent Restraining Order, and a Master Notice of Criminal Indictment."
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