Chapter 2 - THE NAME PRESTON NEVER UNDERSTOOD
Emily woke beneath bright lights with monitors surrounding her.
A fetal heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Strong.
Still there.
She closed her eyes.
Tears slipped toward her ears.
A doctor stood beside the bed.
“Your baby is stable.”
Emily exhaled shakily.
“But you’re having contractions from trauma and stress.”
“Is he coming?”
“Not if we can prevent it.”
Raymond stood near the window.
His jacket was gone.
His sleeves were rolled slightly at the wrists.
For once, he looked less like the chairman of a medical empire and more like the uncle who had taught Emily to ride a bicycle.
“They’re keeping you overnight.”
Emily nodded.
“What happened outside?”
“Police are interviewing witnesses.”
“And Preston?”
Raymond’s face became unreadable.
“He asked whether the hospital intended to press charges.”
Emily stared at him.
“Not whether I was okay?”
“No.”
She looked away.
That hurt more than the kick.
Raymond pulled a chair closer.
“You don’t have to protect him anymore.”
Emily almost laughed.
“I wasn’t protecting him.”
“Yes, you were.”
He spoke gently.
“You’ve been doing it for years.”
Emily looked down at her wedding ring.
Preston had once seemed different from his family.
Less obsessed with status.
Less interested in money.
She had believed that.
Perhaps she had needed to believe it.
“My father trusted him.”
“Your father wanted you happy.”
Raymond leaned forward.
“That is not the same thing.”
Emily touched her stomach.
“Preston thinks Whitmore owns this hospital.”
Raymond’s eyes narrowed.
“I know.”
“He tells everyone that.”
“I know that too.”
Emily looked at him.
“Why did you let him?”
“Because your mother’s trust required discretion.”
That answer made Emily sit a little straighter.
Raymond hesitated.
Then he opened the leather folder beside him.
“There is something Preston does not know.”
He placed one document on the blanket.
Emily recognized her mother’s signature.
Margaret Saint Claire had founded the original women’s clinic thirty-four years earlier.
The Whitmore family had invested later.
Very publicly.
But they had never held controlling ownership.
Raymond pointed to a paragraph.
“Your mother transferred her controlling shares into a trust.”
Emily read the beneficiary line.
Her breath stopped.
Emily Margaret Saint Claire Whitmore.
Seventy-two percent.
She looked up.
“That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Your mother wanted you to have a life before you had an empire.”
Raymond’s voice softened.
“She made me promise.”
Emily stared at the paper.
For years, Preston had treated her like the poor schoolteacher who had married upward.
His mother had corrected Emily’s table manners.
His father had joked that Preston had rescued her from an ordinary life.
Vanessa had just kicked her beneath a hospital sign Emily technically owned.
Then Raymond turned another page.
“And there is more.”
Emily frowned.
Raymond placed a financial report beside the trust document.
Millions of dollars were missing.
May you like
Every unauthorized transfer bore the same executive approval.
Preston Whitmore.
