Chapter 7: Inside the Emergency Room
The sterile, fluorescent lights of the private hospital waiting room hummed monotonously, casting a pale glow over the white tile floor. It was past two in the morning. The grand ballroom was long dark, the guests dispersed with whispered rumors and fabricated excuses about a sudden family illness.
Beatrice sat stiffly on a vinyl chair in the corner, clutching her handbag like a shield. Her beige lace dress was stained with dried cake frosting, and her hair was coming loose from its tight bun. She had insisted on following them to the hospital, partly out of sheer stubbornness and partly because she refused to be left out of any unfolding catastrophe.
Down the hall, the heavy double doors of the treatment rooms swung open. A doctor in blue scrubs emerged, holding a metal clipboard. Arthur stood up immediately from his chair, followed closely by Clara and Julian.
"How is she?" Arthur asked, his voice strained.
The doctor offered a tired, sympathetic smile. "She’s physically stable, Mr. Vance. The acute stress reaction caused a temporary spike in blood pressure, but she is resting now. However, I strongly advise keeping her away from high-stress environments for the next few days."
Beatrice scoffed from her corner, standing up with a sharp rustle of lace. "High-stress? She brought this entirely upon herself! Associating with common thieves and listening to absurd accusations!"
Clara turned her gaze toward the older woman, her expression devoid of anger, bearing only a profound, heavy pity. "Beatrice, you spent your entire life covering for Elena's greed because it protected your position in high society. But your loyalty was misplaced. Elena didn't just steal from me—she stole from our father's memory."
"You have no proof that holds up in a real court!" Beatrice snapped, though her voice lacked its earlier venom.
"We have David Vance," Julian interrupted smoothly, pulling his smartphone from his pocket. He tapped the screen, playing a recorded audio file at low volume. The speaker crackled to life in the quiet hallway, broadcasting the distinct voice of Elena’s accountant confessing to the entire forgery scheme under police questioning.
Beatrice froze, the color draining entirely from her face. The audio played on, detailing how Beatrice herself had helped hide the original financial ledgers in the estate attic six years ago. The silence in the hospital corridor grew deafening.
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Arthur listened to every second, his jaw clenched so tightly that muscles twitched along his jawline. He looked at Beatrice, then down the hall toward the room where his new bride lay recovering from her panic attack.
"It’s over, Beatrice," Arthur said quietly, his voice dangerously level. "The marriage will be annulled by morning. And every asset tied to that fraudulent trust will be returned to its rightful owner."
