Chapter 3 - The Doctor's Verdict
The private pediatric suite on the fourth floor of the Blackwood mansion smelled faintly of antiseptic, warm chamomile, and sterile cotton. It was a room custom-built years ago when Victor’s first wife had fallen ill, equipped with diagnostic monitors, oxygen lines, and a pull-out velvet cot that looked like it hadn't been slept in for a very long time.
When Lily pushed the white-paneled door open, the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminated the small hospital bed in the center of the room.
Fourteen-month-old Ethan lay nestled beneath a light blue blanket. His right arm was encased in a temporary lightweight fiberglass cast, held snugly against his chest with a sling. His face, though still pale and smeared with dried tears, looked peaceful in deep, medication-induced sleep.
Dr. Moreno sat at a small oak desk in the corner, reviewing digital X-ray scans on a illuminated tablet.
"How is he, Doctor?" Lily asked softly, stepping into the room with quiet, practiced reverence so as not to wake him.
Dr. Moreno looked up, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, and offered a reassuring, tired smile. "He’s going to be fine, Lily. The fracture to the radius is clean—no splintering, thank God. But it was a high-torque injury. Whoever twisted that arm used deliberate, malicious force. If you hadn't intervened when you did, or if Mr. Blackwood hadn't returned early..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Lily walked over to the side of the bed, gently resting her hand on Ethan’s uninjured left hand. His tiny fingers curled instinctively around her index finger, a reflex so pure and trusting that a fresh wave of tears stung the backs of her eyes.
"He’s been so quiet lately," Lily whispered, her voice cracking. "I thought it was just a developmental phase. I blamed myself for not reading the signs sooner."
"You couldn't have known," a deep voice spoke from the doorway.
Victor leaned against the doorframe, his dark coat discarded, his white dress shirt slightly rumpled at the cuffs. He looked older tonight—the sharp edges of his formidable reputation softened by the heavy guilt of a father who had nearly lost his only child to his own blinding negligence.
"Sarah Gable brought the administrative logs up from the staff quarters," Victor continued, walking slowly toward the bed. He placed a thick, leather-bound notebook on the nightstand. "Every date, every incident, every threat Serena made over the last three months. Our legal team is already cross-referencing it with the estate’s internal financial transfers."
Dr. Moreno stood up, packing his diagnostic kit into his leather briefcase. "I'll check on him again at dawn. Mr. Blackwood, make sure Lily gets some rest. She took a heavy blow to the abdomen during the altercation; she needs a full medical evaluation herself."
"I'm fine, Doctor—" Lily started, but Victor cut her off with a single, unyielding look.
"Dr. Moreno is right," Victor said. "Sarah is downstairs preparing a guest suite on this floor for you. You are off duty for the next forty-eight hours."
"I'm not leaving Ethan," Lily said firmly, her brown eyes locking onto Victor’s with a stubbornness that caught him entirely off guard. "He wakes up crying for his water bottle every three hours. He won't settle for Sarah or the night nurses right now. Not after what he went through tonight."
Victor stared at her. For a moment, the billionaire who made corporate raiders weep into their coffee cups found himself utterly speechless before a twenty-four-year-old nanny who possessed more courage in her little finger than entire boards of directors combined.
A slow, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched the corners of Victor’s mouth.
"Stubborn," Victor murmured. "My late wife was exactly like that."
He pulled the velvet armchair closer to Ethan’s bed, sat down, and folded his hands over his knees.
"Then neither of us is leaving," Victor said simply. "You take the chair for the first half of the night; I’ll take the second. We share watch."
Lily’s breath hitched. To sit in the same room as Victor Blackwood—the elusive, terrifying titan of Chicago’s financial underworld—was intimidating enough. To share night watch over a sleeping baby with him felt like stepping into an alternate universe.
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"Mr. Blackwood, you have a meeting with the overseas shipping delegates at nine o'clock tomorrow morning—"
"Rescheduled," Victor interrupted smoothly. "My son's arm is broken, and the woman who tried to murder his spirit is locked in my basement. Shipping can wait."
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