Chapter 23: Who Is Trying To Stop The Treatment?

POV: IVY

Someone was using my family’s name to threaten the only person who had ever loved me.

The fluorescent lighting of the hospital corridor hummed softly overhead, stark and cold against my pale skin. Dr. Hayes stood beside me, his grim expression reflecting the horrifying reality of what had just occurred. A hold notice. Someone had actively reached into the administrative machinery of St. Jude’s Memorial, invoked the Vance family name, and attempted to pull the plug on Grandmother’s life support while I was miles away in Michael’s mansion.

“Who took the call?” I demanded, my voice dangerously steady despite the violent tremble in my hands. “I need the exact name, the timestamp, and the extension that logged the cancellation.”

Dr. Hayes sighed, glancing toward the glass wall of the ICU where Grandmother lay hooked to IV lines and a quiet heart monitor. “The night coordinator processed it around one-fifteen. The caller provided your family’s private billing reference code and claimed to represent the estate’s secondary trustees. Because the authorization came through the standard proxy credentials, the system flagged the wire transfer automatically.”

“Re-authorize it,” I said, pulling out the power-of-attorney documents from my leather bag and pressing them into his hands. “Use my signature. Michael Sterling’s treasury issued a direct guarantee. If anyone calls back claiming to speak for the family, reject them. Only I authorize her treatment. Only me.”

Dr. Hayes looked at the desperation burning in my eyes and gave a firm, reassuring nod. “I’ll oversee the administrative bypass myself, Ivy. We’re moving her into the pre-op room now.”

Once he turned down the hall, I retreated into a quiet alcove near the emergency exit. The cold air from the glass doors rushed over me, but the fire inside my chest burned white-hot.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Evelyn’s private line.

It rang four times before my mother picked up. Her voice was smooth, poised, and entirely unbothered by the early hour.

“Gemma?” Evelyn answered, her tone dripping with polished indifference. “Why are you calling me at three in the morning? Is Michael back from his trip?”

“Did you call St. Jude’s tonight?” I asked, skipping any pretense of courtesy. My voice was a razor-sharp whisper. “Did you place a hold on Grandmother’s medical account?”

A heavy, deliberate pause stretched across the line.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Evelyn replied coldly, though a faint hint of irritation laced her breath. “The family trust accounts were settled after your wedding. If there’s an issue with the hospital, speak to your husband’s accounting firm.”

“The hospital received a call using our private estate reference code, Evelyn!” I snapped, gripping the phone so tightly the casing groaned under my fingers. “Someone told the billing department that the family could no longer afford her procedure! If I hadn't arrived in person, they would have canceled the surgery!”

Evelyn let out a low, patronizing sigh. “Watch your tone with me, Ivy. I haven't contacted St. Jude’s since Tuesday. But if you’re looking for someone who resents the cost of that old woman’s hospice care, perhaps you should look to your sister. Gemma complained to me twice last week about how much of the estate liquidity was tied up in long-term medical reserves.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Gemma?”

“Gemma understands the value of capital,” Evelyn said, her tone hardening into a chill warning. “She knows that keeping a dying woman on a ventilator for another six months does nothing for our corporate standing. Now stop making scenes at the hospital and get back to Michael’s house before he notices you’re missing.”

The line went dead.

I stood frozen in the drafty hallway, my mind spinning. Evelyn was capable of chilling cruelty, but she rarely lied when she had the upper hand; she preferred to flaunt her control.

Without hesitating, I pulled up Gemma’s Paris contact and hit dial.

It rang for nearly a minute before Gemma picked up. Loud electronic music and ambient club chatter spilled through the speaker.

“What is your problem?” Gemma whined loudly into the receiver. “I’m in the middle of dinner at Costes!”

“Did you call the hospital tonight, Gemma?” I demanded, keeping my voice low and lethal. “Did you try to stop Grandmother’s surgery?”

“Are you insane?” Gemma sneered, her speech slightly slurred. “Why would I waste my time calling a hospital in the middle of the night? I’m in Paris!”

“Someone used our estate proxy code to freeze her clearance!” I spat back. “Evelyn said you complained about her medical costs!”

“Because it’s a waste of money!” Gemma barked, her voice dropping into a sharp, nasty rasp. “She’s eighty-two years old, Ivy! She doesn't even recognize us half the time! But no, I didn't call your stupid hospital. I have better things to do than sabotage your pathetic little saint routine. Stop creating problems where there aren't any, and stop calling me!”

Click.

I dropped the phone to my side, staring blankly at the wall across the hall.

The terrifying truth settled into my bones like lead. Gemma didn't care if Grandmother lived or died, but she hadn't made the call. Evelyn hadn't made the call.

Which left only two possibilities: Melanie, who had held a manila folder filled with our family’s private financial logs only hours ago, or Michael himself, testing my reaction to see how far I would go to protect a secret.

I was completely, terrifyingly alone. My mother treated me like a pawn, my sister viewed me as a disposable shield, my husband watched me with icy suspicion, and his mistress was methodically laying explosives beneath my feet.

I couldn't trust a single soul in either family.

Sitting down on a cold metal chair in the waiting room, I pulled out a small, unlined leather notebook from my bag. For two hours, while the surgeons worked behind the double doors to save Grandmother’s life, I wrote down every detail. I logged every timestamp, every phone call, every discrepancy in Gemma’s records, and every interaction with Melanie. If I was going to survive this war, I couldn't rely on memory or luck. I had to document everything, building my own file to protect the substitution while arming myself against the trap being built around me.

By five in the morning, Dr. Hayes stepped out of the surgical theater. He wore a tired smile and gave me a silent thumbs-up.

The procedure had been a success. Grandmother was stable, resting quietly in recovery.

Relief washed over me, heavy and bittersweet. I kissed her cool forehead through the blanket, whispered a silent promise to return, and slipped out of the hospital into the gray dawn to find a taxi back to the estate before the mansion woke up.

I arrived back at the east wing suite at seven-fifteen. I shed my damp coat, washed my face with cold water, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of clean heels for breakfast.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand.

It wasn't a text message. It was an automated notification indicating a new voicemail from an unlisted, private number, the same number that had messaged me after the wedding.

My heart thudded against my ribs as I brought the phone to my ear and pressed play.

A distorted, synthesis-filtered voice filled the receiver, slow, calm, and utterly chilling:

“You should have stayed in your room tonight, Gemma. If you care about your grandmother, stop asking questions.”