Chapter 22: Grandmother’s Condition

POV: IVY

While I was fighting to survive in Michael’s house, my grandmother’s body was fighting a different battle.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:14 a.m. when the phone shrilled in the dark silence of my guest suite. The sudden vibration against the wood made my heart leap into my throat. In this house, late-night calls were never benign; they were either a summons from Michael, a trap from Melanie, or a knife in the dark from Evelyn.

I snatched the receiver off the nightstand, sliding my thumb across the screen.

“Hello?” I whispered, my voice tight.

“Miss Ivy?” The nurse’s voice on the other end was strained, clipped, and laced with an urgency that instantly drained the blood from my face. “You need to come to St. Jude’s Memorial immediately. Your grandmother has developed a sudden pulmonary complication. Her oxygen saturation levels dropped sharply twenty minutes ago, and the attending physician has moved her back into the critical care unit.”

The room seemed to tilt sideways. The walls of the expensive, minimalist guest suite dissolved into a terrifying blur.

“Is she, is she conscious?” I choked out, my fingers digging white into the edge of the mattress.

“She’s fighting for her breath, Miss Ivy,” the nurse said gently, the pity in her tone cutting deeper than any insult. “The specialist wants to authorize the secondary procedure right away, but we need an immediate family signature on the secondary clearance protocol.”

“I’m coming,” I breathed, the panic rising like a tidal wave in my chest. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I didn't bother changing out of the silk loungewear I had slept in. I threw on a heavy cashmere overcoat, pulled my hair back into a frantic knot, and ran out of the room. My bare feet made no sound against the thick hallway carpet as I hurried down the grand staircase and rushed toward the private intercom near the kitchen to summon a driver.

Mrs. Gable was already in the hallway, having heard my hurried footsteps, her eyes wide with concern.

“Miss Ivy? Is everything all right?” she asked, taking a step forward.

“I need a car, Mrs. Gable,” I said, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “An emergency at the hospital. Tell the night driver to pull the sedan around immediately.”

Mrs. Gable hesitated, wringing her hands nervously. “I... I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. The primary town car went in for routine maintenance yesterday evening, and Mr. Sterling instructed the security detail to keep the secondary vehicles locked down for the corporate fleet tomorrow morning. I don't have authorization to release a vehicle without Mr. Sterling’s direct sign-off.”

“Then wake him up!” I cried out, my voice cracking with desperation. “My grandmother is dying in the ICU! I don't have time to wait for his permission!”

Before Mrs. Gable could answer, the heavy double doors of the private study down the hall swung open. Michael stepped out into the hallway. He was dressed in a dark silk robe, his hair slightly rumpled, his stormy gray eyes dark with annoyance at the disturbance.

“What is the meaning of this noise at two in the morning?” Michael demanded, his deep voice slicing through the quiet air with icy authority.

I spun around, crossing the marble floor until I stood right in front of him, my chest heaving, the terror in my eyes entirely real and unfeigned.

“Michael, I need a car. Right now,” I said, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “St. Jude’s just called. My grandmother has developed a pulmonary complication—she’s in the critical care unit. I need to get to the hospital.”

Michael stared down at me, his expression remaining entirely unmoved. He didn't flinch at the news; he didn't offer a single word of sympathy. His analytical mind merely assessed the situation like a corporate ledger.

“The estate vehicles are allocated for the morning board meetings,” Michael replied coldly, his voice flat. “You can take a taxi.”

A taxi? The realization that he cared so little for my life, that my grandmother’s dying breath was worth less than his corporate schedule, hit me with the force of a physical blow. But I didn't have time to argue. I didn't have time to shatter his ego or scream at his callousness.

“Fine,” I hissed, turning on my heel. “I’ll take a cab.”

I sprinted past him toward the front foyer, grabbing my leather bag from the console table. I pulled out my phone, frantically opening the ride-share app with trembling fingers as I pushed the heavy front doors open into the cold, rainy night.

It took thirty agonizing minutes for a car to navigate the winding private estate roads and reach the iron gates. By the time I tumbled out of the cab at the entrance of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, my hands were freezing, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I threw open the sliding glass doors of the emergency entrance, sprinting down the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors toward the second-floor ICU.

When I reached the double doors of the critical care unit, Dr. Hayes, the head specialist, was standing at the nurses' station holding a clipboard, his face grim.

“Dr. Hayes!” I gasped, rushing up to him, my coat soaked from the rain. “How is she? Where is she?”

Dr. Hayes looked up, his professional expression softening into deep concern as he recognized me. He lowered his clipboard and gestured for me to step away from the busy corridor.

“Ivy, calm down. We’ve stabilized her oxygen levels for the moment,” Dr. Hayes said quietly. “She asked for you repeatedly before she drifted off to sleep. Her body is fighting hard, but the secondary procedure can't be delayed any longer. We need to move her into the operating theater within the hour.”

A massive wave of relief washed over me, instantly followed by a sickening drop in my stomach. I reached into my bag for my pen, pulling out the authorization documents. “I’m here. I’ll sign whatever you need. Use the direct corporate account Mr. Sterling set up….”

Dr. Hayes raised a hand, interrupting me gently. A shadow of confusion crossed his tired face.

“That’s actually why I wanted to speak with you before you went inside, Ivy,” Dr. Hayes said, his voice dropping into a cautious whisper. “When the administrative team processed the financial clearance code this evening, the hospital billing department received an automated hold notice.”

My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering softly against the linoleum floor. “A hold notice? What are you talking about? Mr. Sterling’s treasury cleared the medical trust directly three days ago.”

Dr. Hayes looked at me with a steady, troubled gaze.

“Someone called the billing office an hour ago using your family’s name,” the doctor said quietly, delivering the words that turned my blood to ice. “They canceled the direct wire instructions. They said the payments were no longer authorized, and that the family could no longer afford the procedure.”