Chapter 2: The Lazarus Call
The heavy doors of the operating room slammed shut. The blinding surgical lights flared. I lay on the table, a green sterile drape blocking my view of my abdomen. I felt the dull pressure of the scalpel dragging across my skin. No pain, just a heavy, sickening tugging. I kept my eyes half-open, watching the blurry reflection of my own blood on the metallic fixtures above me.
A loud, furious wail shattered the silence.
“It’s a boy. Time of birth 2:14 PM. 3 lbs 8 oz.”
Less than a minute later, a second, slightly softer cry echoed out.
“It’s a girl. 2:15 PM. 3 lbs 6 oz.”
The severe tension on the surgeon’s face broke into relief. “Relax, Mom. The fluid was rough, but they’re crying loud. Apgar scores are solid.”
I swallowed hard, exhaling a long, trembling breath. Nurse Carla brought two tiny, heavily swaddled bundles close to my face. I stared at those two wrinkled, bright red little faces. They were mine. My blood. And I would burn the world down before I let the Hayes family taint them.
“Still no word from the family?” the surgeon asked casually as he began to stitch me up.
Carla shook her head, muttering a curse. “The waiting room is completely empty. Phones are still straight to voicemail. It’s sickening.”
I stared at the ceiling. My pale lips pressed into a razor-thin line. No family. No fake concern from Donovan. No petty complaining from Brenda. In this moment, the absolute dead silence outside the OR extinguished the very last flicker of hesitation in my heart.
An hour later, I was wheeled into a semi-private recovery room. The woman in the bed next to mine had also just had a C-section. She was surrounded by seven family members. Her husband was carefully feeding her ice chips from a small spoon. Laughter and warm chatter drifted over the blue privacy curtain.
I lay completely alone in the bed by the window, hooked up to a pain pump and an IV drip of pitocin to contract my uterus. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, casting a lonely silhouette over my blankets. Carla rolled the two infant incubators to my bedside and sighed, promising to hunt down some broth for me.
As she left, the privacy curtain ruffled in the draft. The mother-in-law in the next bed accidentally glanced over and spoke up in a loud, booming voice. “Oh my lord, look at these kids today, giving birth without a single person here to help out. If she had married into a decent family, she wouldn’t be suffering like this alone.”
I didn’t turn my head. I slowly pulled my right hand out from under the blankets. Clutched in my palm was a nearly dead backup cell phone Carla had plugged into the wall for me. I hit the power button. Four percent battery remaining.
On my messaging app, Donovan’s profile picture remained dark. The text I had sent two hours ago—“I’m going into the OR”—had vanished into the abyss. On Facebook, the likes on Brenda’s video were skyrocketing. Donovan’s frat-boy buddies were filling the comments with, “Congrats to Donnie on the big boy!”
I opened my contacts list, swiping all the way to the bottom until my finger rested on an unsaved number. That string of digits had been burned into my memory for three years. Walk out those doors, the old man had warned me, and there is no place for you at Prescott Industries, even if you are dying in the gutter.
I closed my eyes. My vision blurred for a fraction of a second before being replaced by cold, crystal-clear lucidity. I held the phone to my ear and hit dial. The battery dropped to two percent. The screen flashed a critical red warning.
It rang three times before it connected. No one spoke on the other end. Just the sound of heavy, steady, aging breathing transmitting through the cellular waves.
My knuckles turned white. I opened my mouth. My voice was incredibly quiet, but laced with unquestionable resolve. “Grandpa. I just had twins. A boy and a girl.”
Dead silence on the other end. Five agonizing seconds passed before Richard Prescott’s rough, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker. The authority in his tone was undiminished by time. “Where?”
“St. Jude’s Medical Center. Maternity ward, fifth floor, room three,” I spat the words out flatly.
“Where is Donovan?” The old man’s voice dropped an octave, carrying the terrifying, suffocating pressure of an incoming hurricane.
My lips twitched upward as I stared at the blinding sunlight outside the window. “Throwing a first birthday party for his mistress’s son. His entire family is there.”
Crack!
A sharp, distinct sound of shattering crystal echoed through the receiver. It was the sound of Richard Prescott crushing his heavy bourbon glass bare-handed.
“Benson, get the fleet ready.” Richard didn’t say another word to me, simply turning his head to bark an order at his Chief of Staff. He didn’t yell, but the sheer force of his voice made my eardrum ring. “Mobilize every corporate chopper we have. Contact Vanguard Acquisitions, Apex Solutions, and the legal department. I want every single one of them at St. Jude’s in exactly ten minutes.”
“Grandpa,” I called out softly.
“Lie flat. Don’t move,” Richard’s voice hitched, betraying a microscopic tremor of suppressed rage. “A daughter of the Prescott family does not get trampled by bottom-feeding street trash. That score you racked up three years ago? I’m settling it today.”
The phone screen went pitch black. It died completely.
I slowly lowered my arm, sliding the cold phone under my pillow. I lay flat, placing both hands gently above my surgical incision, and took a long, deep breath. The agonizing cramps from the pitocin suddenly didn’t feel so bad anymore. I was ready for the war.
