The maternity floor at Hawthorne Regional Medical Center was unusually quiet that Thursday evening

With Warren in holding and the corporate board thoroughly cleansed of his sycophants, I turned my full attention to the maternity ward at Hawthorne Regional Medical Center.

Two days after the boardroom ambush, I walked back through those double doors. This time, I wasn't carrying a bouquet of flowers. I carried a formal legal summons and an eviction notice.

When I pushed open the door to room 427, Mallory was sitting up in bed, looking flushed and anxious. She had clearly been watching the local financial news broadcasts, where Warren’s arrest and the Vellichor Culinary embezzlement scandal were currently making headlines.

“Clara,” Mallory stammered, pulling the baby closer to her chest as if using the infant as a human shield. “You... you can’t be serious. You actually had him arrested?”

I walked slowly into the room, stopping at the foot of her bed. I didn't look at the baby; my eyes were locked entirely on my sister.

“He embezzled corporate funds to finance your lifestyle, Mallory,” I said evenly. “He plotted to steal my company while you sat in this hospital bed laughing about how you were going to leave me with nothing. Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences?”

“We’re sisters!” Mallory cried out, tears welling in her eyes—tears that I had learned long ago were weapons she used whenever accountability knocked on her door. “How can you be so cold? I just had a baby! He needs a father, and I need support! You have everything—millions of dollars, restaurants, success! Why can’t you just let us have this one thing?”

“Because you didn't build it, Mallory,” I replied, my voice steady and unyielding. “Everything you have ever touched, you’ve tried to take from someone else because you refused to work for it yourself. And as for your living arrangements?”

I reached into my designer handbag and pulled out a thick legal envelope, placing it neatly on the bedside tray next to her meal tray.

“That is an official notice of eviction for the luxury penthouse apartment in downtown Seattle that Warren was paying for using embezzled company funds under your name,” I continued calmly. “The lease has been terminated, and the accounts have been frozen. By the end of the week, you will need to find somewhere else to live.”

Mallory stared at the envelope in absolute horror. “You can’t do this! Where am I supposed to go with a newborn baby?”

“Call our mother,” I said, turning toward the door. “Or better yet, call Warren’s parents. Though, considering they found out their son is facing twenty years in federal prison for financial crimes, I doubt they’re answering their phones either.”