Chapter 2: The Corridor of White and Steel
The sterile glare of St. Jude Hospital felt miles away from the warm, wood-paneled shadows of the study. I sat on a vinyl-covered bench in the second-floor waiting corridor, my pink ruffled dress looking absurdly out of place beneath the humming fluorescent lights. Julian stood by the tall arched window, his dark suit jacket buttoned tight, his back to me as he stared out at the rainy Chicago streetlamps below. His fingers worked the gold signet ring on his left hand with sharp, rhythmic twitches.
"They're stabilizing him," Julian said without turning around, his voice dropping into a flat, businesslike cadence that didn't hide the exhaustion scraping at the edges. "Cardiology says the digitalis levels in his blood were ten times the therapeutic dose. Someone gave him a slow-acting poison, Sophia. Your father didn't just collapse."
I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my chin against the fabric of my dress. Outside the glass doors on the ground level, Brutus was locked inside the back of Julian's armored sedan, but I could still feel the heavy, protective anchor of his presence somewhere down below.
"He kept his ledger in the bottom drawer of the mahogany desk," I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the wall heater. "The one with the brass lion head."
Julian turned slowly, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied me. The aggressive, slick arrogance he wore like armor in the boardroom had cracked slightly around the eyes, leaving behind the tired features of a man who realized he was standing on shifting sand.
"Your father trusted me with the accounts," Julian said, taking a measured step across the shiny linoleum. "He didn't trust me with you. And right now, the board is moving to freeze every asset before the sun comes up. They claim he signed an emergency incapacitation waiver three days ago."
"He didn't sign anything like that," I replied, holding his gaze without blinking. "He told me the board was trying to sell out the regional shipping hubs to the syndicate in New York. He was going to fire them all on Monday."
Julian let out a short, harsh breath that sounded almost like a laugh. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a silver case, flicked it open, then thought better of it and snapped it shut again.
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"If that waiver is filed," Julian muttered, running a hand through his slicked-back hair until a few strands fell loose across his forehead, "we lose the house, the foundation, and everything your father spent thirty years building. And you wind up in a state ward before the weekend."
"Then we go back," I said, sliding off the bench and smoothing out my skirt. "Before the morning shift arrives."
