Chapter 3 - The Broken CircleThe air in trauma bay four evaporated instantly.
Ryan didn't scream. He didn't throw a punch, though I saw the massive muscles in his forearms bunch up so tightly the veins threatened to burst through his wet jacket. He simply stood there, rooted to the linoleum floor, staring at his wife and his brother-in-law as if he had been struck by lightning.
"Amanda?" Ryan’s voice was barely a whisper, hollow and broken, carrying a weight far heavier than any shout. "What... what are you doing here?"
Amanda stopped thrashing. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her eyes darting between her husband and the man trapped against her body. "Ryan... honey... let me explain... it's a medical emergency, we got stuck—"
"Stuck?" Ryan repeated, a terrifying, humorless laugh escaping his throat. He took one slow, deliberate step toward the gurney. "You told me you were going to your mother's house in Albany. You've been gone since Friday. And you're... you're in a hospital bed with Derek?"
"Ryan, stop," I stepped forward, gently placing a hand on my brother's soaked sleeve. "Don't waste your breath asking them for the truth. They haven't told the truth in years."
Dr. Sterling, sweating profusely under the intense psychological pressure of the room, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh... Mr. Rollins? Mrs. Vance? I still need authorization for the muscle relaxant. We can't keep them like this indefinitely; the physical strain on their cardiovascular systems is becoming hazardous."
I looked down at Derek. He looked like a cornered rat, his eyes pleading with me, begging for a shred of mercy.
"Sign it, Olivia. Please," Derek choked out.
I slowly opened my leather briefcase, pulled out the medical consent form, and signed my maiden name across the bottom line: Olivia Vance.
"There," I said, handing the clipboard back to the doctor. "Do whatever you need to do to untangle them. But make sure they stay in separate rooms."
Within five minutes, the medical staff descended on the gurney with syringes and professional detachment. As the chemical agents took effect and the agonizing, pathetic process of separation began, I turned my back on them.
"Come on, Ryan," I told my brother, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get out of here. You're coming home with me."
As we walked out into the cool, pre-dawn air of the hospital parking lot, the rain had finally stopped, leaving a heavy, mist-covered stillness over the city. Ryan slumped against the hood of my car, burying his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs.
I stood beside him, rubbing his back, feeling an old, familiar protective rage burn deep in my chest. For years, I had believed that my failure to get pregnant was the fracture line in my marriage—that my inability to give Derek a child was what drove him away. I had blamed myself for every cold shoulder, every late night at the office, every canceled anniversary dinner.
Now, looking at the grey sky, I realized something liberating.
I hadn't failed. I had simply been married to a parasite.
And as I drove Ryan back to my quiet, immaculate suburban home, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was a text message from an unknown number.
Ms. Rollins? This is Arthur Pendelton, senior partner at Pendelton Forensic Accounting. I received your audit files regarding Winslow-Rollins Holdings. You were right. You need to see the primary vault records immediately.
May you like
My foot eased off the gas pedal. Winslow-Rollins Holdings was the private investment firm Derek and I had supposedly built together using his family inheritance and my early-career savings.
Or so he had always told me.
