Chapter 4: The Estate Doctor
The lock clicked back with a dry, metallic snap that made me jump. I pulled the blue dress tight over my knees, rocking the white swaddle blanket against my chest. The baby let out a faint, rhythmic sigh, his breathing so shallow I had to press my cheek to the flannel just to make sure he was still with me.
Marcus stepped into the east wing guest suite, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned, carrying a heavy leather medical case. Behind him slipped an older man with graying hair and tired eyes, wearing a dark wool coat. Dr. Hayes. I had seen him once before, months ago, when Julian had caught a bad winter flu and refused to let anyone from the local hospital near the estate.
"Keep your voice down," Marcus said, closing the heavy oak door softly behind them. He slid the brass deadbolt halfway—just enough to discourage casual entry, not enough to draw Julian's eye if the master of the house decided to patrol this hallway. "Julian is still in his study reviewing the security logs from the south gates. We have twenty minutes, maybe thirty before he sends for her."
Dr. Hayes set his case on the edge of the mahogany dresser, popping the brass latches with a practiced click. He didn't look at me with pity or suspicion; he looked like a man accustomed to midnight emergencies where discretion mattered more than paperwork.
"Let's see him," the doctor said quietly, holding out his hands. His palms were warm and smelled faintly of antiseptic soap.
I unspooled the folds of the white blanket, revealing the small, sleeping face nestled inside. Dr. Hayes reached into his case, pulled out a small penlight, and gently guided the baby's chin down to check his breathing. He listened to the infant's chest with a cold stethoscope that made the baby scrunch his face in silent protest.
"He's healthy," Dr. Hayes murmured after a long, tense moment. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, shining the light into the tiny eyes. "Full term. Well-nourished, surprisingly enough. Born within the last seventy-two hours, I'd say. No signs of trauma, no distress."
"Are you certain?" Marcus crossed his arms, leaning his broad shoulders against the wall near the window. His eyes darted to the dark glass outside, where the rain was beginning to streak the leaded panes. "If there's any complication—anything that links this child to a public clinic or a paper trail—we need to know before the board gets wind of it."
"I'm certain of his physical state, Marcus," Dr. Hayes replied, packing his stethoscope away with crisp efficiency. "He's a strong boy. But that doesn't solve your primary problem."
The doctor reached into the folds of the white swaddle blanket where my hands had been gripping the fabric. He pinched a small corner of the hem, lifting a narrow strip of adhesive paper that had been tucked deep into the inner seam. It was a pediatric intake tag, no larger than a postage stamp, printed with a bar code and a series of numbers from the Saint Jude Memorial Maternity Center across the county line.
"Found it wedged near the infant's shoulder," Dr. Hayes said, holding the tag up between his thumb and forefinger under the amber glow of the bedside lamp. "A standard discharge label. They use these for tracking newborns before the birth certificate is finalized."
I stared at the tiny bar code, my throat tightening. "He wasn't just left in the pantry by accident," I whispered, the words catching on a dry cough. "Someone brought him through the service gates."
"And if the press gets hold of that clinic's name," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register, "Julian's political backers will tear Vance Holdings apart from the inside. They've been waiting for any excuse to paint him as reckless, unstable, unfit to head the foundation. A mystery infant on the estate doorstep is a public relations catastrophe."
"Then don't let them find out," Dr. Hayes said firmly. He peeled the adhesive tag off his glove and pressed it gently into my open palm, closing my fingers over the plastic. "Keep that safe. It's the only thread you have connecting him to where he started. But remember who you're dealing with downstairs. Julian doesn't tolerate secrets in this house."
Marcus straightened up as a heavy chime echoed from the main hall—the grandfather clock striking two. "Time's up," Marcus said, his gaze shifting to the door. "Hayes, out through the conservatory. I'll meet you at the side gate."
May you like
The doctor snapped his case shut, gave me a brief, steady nod, and slipped back out into the dark hallway, leaving the door ajar by an inch. Marcus lingered for a second, looking down at me with an expression that wasn't entirely cold.
"Get ready," Marcus warned quietly. "Julian just asked for you in the study."
