Chapter 8 - The Midnight Phone Call That Shattered the Illusion
By 11:57 p.m., while Clare lay bleeding under the glaring lights of the operating theater, Nathaniel was still deeply ensconced in Vanessa Whitmore’s luxury apartment, paralyzed by a sudden, creeping sense of dread. His younger brother, Andrew, who rarely called anyone past 9:00 p.m. unless an asset was burning down or a scandal had broken, rang his cell phone with relentless urgency. Nathaniel glanced down at the flashing screen with a frown of annoyance. Vanessa stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her arms tightly wrapped around her slim torso as the dark expanse of Central Park stretched out below them like an abyss. “Answer it, Nathaniel. It’s your brother; something is wrong,” she urged softly, her voice carrying a nervous tremor. Nathaniel swiped the screen, snapping irritably, “What is it, Andrew? Make it quick.” Andrew did not waste a single second on pleasantries or social padding. “Why aren't you physically at New York-Presbyterian right now, Nate?” Nathaniel’s expression hardened, his posture stiffening defensively. “Because my mother’s transplant was stable by afternoon, and Clare’s surgery concluded successfully hours ago. Why are you checking up on me?” “That isn't what I asked you, and you damn well know it,” Andrew fired back, his voice sharp with suppressed rage. Vanessa watched Nathaniel’s face closely, noting the sudden draining of color from his cheeks. Andrew continued without pause. “I just spoke directly to one of the night charge nurses in the surgical ICU wing. Clare suffered severe internal complications hours ago.” Nathaniel bolted upright from the velvet sofa, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. “What kind of complications? What are her vitals?” “I don't know the exact clinical details! They refused to give me specifics over the phone because I'm not immediate proxy, but they said the surgical team rushed her back into the operating theater for an emergency exploratory laparotomy!” Nathaniel stared down at his phone in absolute disbelief. Clare’s first missed call still sat mockingly near the very top of his notification screen, a silent monument to his negligence. Then his eyes drifted back toward Vanessa, whose face was pale and drawn. The anonymous, threatening text message demanding she watch her back remained illuminated on the coffee table nearby. Nathaniel stood up abruptly, grabbing his car keys. “I'm calling the hospital directly right now.” “You should have been standing in that hallway hours ago, you selfish bastard,” Andrew snarled before abruptly disconnecting the line with a sharp click. Nathaniel hated being lectured, especially by a younger brother who lived a chaotic, unaccountable life, but the cold knot in his stomach tightened into a fist. “I said I'll handle it, Andrew—” he muttered to the dead line. He looked back toward Vanessa. “Vanessa might genuinely be targeted by an extortionist or a stalker right now.” Andrew’s words echoed relentlessly in his mind: And Clare isn't? Nathaniel’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. “The original surgery was successful,” he argued aloud to the empty room. “Postoperative bleeding happens in a percentage of cases; the specialists have it managed.” Nathaniel looked up, catching his own reflection in the dark, mirrored glass of the apartment window: a man wearing a black designer shirt, an expensive watch that told time while wasting a life, and eyes shadowed with the creeping realization of his own catastrophic failure.
