Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Clinic
The fluorescent lights of St. Jude’s Clinic buzzed with a low, headache-inducing frequency. The smell of antiseptic and old paper hung thick in the narrow hallway.
Claire Bennett lay on a narrow cot in Room 212, looking pale and impossibly fragile. When the door opened and Adrian Marlowe filled the doorway, the young woman practically tried to sit straight through the blankets, her face draining of what little color remained.
“Mr. Marlowe!” she choked out, her voice raspy. “I’m so sorry—my daughter, where is my daughter? Oh God, please don’t fire me, I didn't mean to send her, she snuck out, she’s only five—”
“Calm down, Claire,” Adrian commanded, his presence instantly dominating the tiny room. He stepped inside, followed closely by Marcus, who waited by the door like a silent sentinel. “Your daughter is safe. She is currently eating three times her weight in croissants back at the estate.”
Claire burst into tears, covering her face with thin, trembling hands. “I couldn't afford the cab to the clinic, and the dialysis center called saying my mother missed her morning slot because of the paperwork, and I just… I couldn't lose this job. Every other employer turned me away when they saw my mother’s medical history. They thought I’d be distracted.”
Adrian walked over to the window, looking out at the drab parking lot. “You think I am a tyrant, Claire?”
“No, sir—it’s just that people say… people in Bedford say your heart turned to stone after the fire.”
Adrian didn't flinch at the word fire. He had heard it in every courtroom, every police report, every gossip column. The Marlowe Estate fire. The tragic electrical fault that consumed the east wing, killing his wife and daughter while he was trapped in the study.
Except Adrian had never believed it was an accident.
“Your mother’s dialysis,” Adrian said, turning back to face her. “How much is the shortfall?”
Claire blinked, stunned. “Sir?”
“The financial gap between what your insurance covers and what the clinic demands. Name the figure.”
“It’s… it’s twelve thousand dollars for the next six months,” she whispered, her cheeks burning with shame. “I’ve been trying to pick up night shifts at the diner, but—”
“Marcus,” Adrian said without looking back. “Settle her mother’s account in full immediately. Move Mrs. June Bennett to a private room at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Get the best specialists. Put it on my corporate philanthropic ledger.”
Claire stared at him in absolute disbelief. “Mr. Marlowe… I can’t accept this. It’s too much. How could I ever pay you back?”
“By resting until your doctor clears you,” Adrian replied coldly, though there was an undeniable warmth in his dark eyes. “And by ensuring your daughter never has to mop a marble floor in my house again. When you return to work, your wages will be doubled.”
As Adrian turned to leave, a nurse hurried down the hall, clutching a clipboard. “Excuse me! Are you Mr. Marlowe? There’s a package downstairs at the front desk for you. It was dropped off by a courier who said it was urgent—marked Personal and Confidential.”
May you like
Adrian paused. He rarely received mail at locations outside his office in Manhattan, let alone a clinic in White Plains.
“Bring it here,” Adrian instructed.
