Chapter 3: The Wrath of the Director
The crowd of security personnel at the door parted like the Red Sea as an older man strode into the suite. He wore a crisp, white lab coat over a tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair swept back, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, absolute authority.
It was Dr. Arthur Vance. He wasn't just the Chief Medical Director and majority shareholder of St. Jude’s Hospital Network; he was a medical tycoon whose personal wealth rivaled the Thorne empire, a man who rarely handled private patients unless they were heads of state.
But more importantly, he was Khloe’s maternal uncle—the man who had quietly funded her education and protected her from the shadows long before she ever met Marcus Thorne.
Arthur took one look at his niece sobbing in Marcus's arms, and the sophisticated demeanor of a medical professional completely disintegrated into the raw, lethal fury of a protective guardian.
“Uncle Arthur...” Khloe choked out through her tears.
Isabella’s face drained of color. She knew Dr. Vance was powerful, but she had never, in her wildest dreams, suspected that the "nameless, ordinary girl" Marcus had married was the beloved niece of the most powerful medical magnate in the country.
“Dr. Vance,” Isabella stammered, backing away until her heels hit the glass shards. “This... this was an accident. Your niece attacked me, I swear—”
“Shut your mouth,” Arthur hissed, a sound so cold it made the security guards at the door visibly straighten. He walked over to the wall near the mahogany vanity, pointing a long, steady finger at a tiny, almost invisible black dome nestled in the crown molding. “This is a level-five restricted prenatal suite, Miss Rossi. It is designed to safeguard high-profile figures. Every single square inch of this room is monitored by a closed-circuit, military-grade security system that streams directly to my personal server.”
Arthur pulled a sleek tablet from his coat pocket and tapped the screen twice. A crystal-clear video began to play, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. The audio captured Isabella’s venomous confession perfectly: “You were meant to stay in your place... give him an heir... and then fade away.” Then came the visual of the brutal shove, and finally, the horrific, sickening sight of Isabella’s stiletto driving into Khloe’s pregnant stomach.
Isabella dropped to her knees, her hands covering her mouth as her perfect, sociopathic lie crumbled into a million unrecoverable pieces right before her eyes. “No... please... delete it... my father... we can pay you whatever you want—”
“Your father is currently downstairs at the gala,” Arthur said, his voice dropping into a clinical, devastating register. “And within the next sixty seconds, he will watch this exact video broadcast onto the main projector screens of the grand ballroom, right in front of the Governor, the media, and every single one of your family's primary investors.”
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“No!” Isabella shrieked, reaching out frantically, her crimson gown dragging through the wet marble floor. “You can't do that! It will ruin us!”
“You reaped what you sowed, girl,” Arthur said coldly, turning his back on her. “Security, arrest Miss Rossi for attempted murder of an unborn child and aggravated assault. If she breathes too loudly, add a trespassing charge. Ensure she is taken out through the main lobby in handcuffs, right past the paparazzi.”
