Chapter 1 An Unexpected Encounter in the ER
The emergency room at Manhattan Children's Hospital never sleeps, but at 2 AM, it usually settles into a predictable rhythm. Nurses chatting softly at their stations. Monitors beeping in steady intervals. The occasional sob from a feverish child.
Tonight, that rhythm was shattered by my own daughter's cry.
"Mommy, it hurts," Lily whimpered, her small body burning at 103.5 degrees despite the Tylenol I'd given her at home. Her golden curls clung to her forehead, damp with sweat.
"I know, sweetheart. Dr. Mommy is going to make it better." I stroked her hair, trying to project calm while my heart raced. It's different when it's your own child. Medical school teaches you everything about pediatric care except how to think clearly when it's your baby struggling to breathe.
I'd called ahead to my colleague, Dr. Alvarez, who was waiting for us when we arrived. He took one look at Lily and immediately ushered us into a private examination room.
"Bacterial infection, possibly strep," he murmured, gently examining Lily's throat while I held her hand. "We'll need to start antibiotics immediately."
I nodded, medical training temporarily overriding maternal panic. "Run a full panel, please. And let's get IV fluids going."
Alvarez raised an eyebrow. "Clara, you know you're not supposed to direct treatment when it's your own child."
"Please, Miguel." My voice cracked. "Just humor the paranoid mother in me."
He squeezed my shoulder. "I've got this. You know I'll take care of her like she was my own."
While Alvarez ordered the tests, I sat beside Lily's bed, singing softly as she drifted into a fitful sleep. The IV line snaked from her small arm, making her look impossibly fragile. I reached into my lab coat pocket—I'd thrown it on out of habit when the fever spiked—and pulled out a princess band-aid, carefully placing it over the tape securing her IV.
"Dr. Bennett."
The deep voice from the doorway froze my blood. A voice I hadn't heard in five years but would recognize anywhere. Low. Commanding. The slightest hint of a British boarding school accent beneath the New York business polish.
I didn't turn around. "This is a restricted area. Please return to the waiting room."
"I think we both know I don't wait in waiting rooms."
Slowly, I stood and faced him. Nathaniel Thorn stood in the doorway, his six-foot-two frame filling the space completely. Black Tom Ford suit. Crisp white shirt. No tie—the only concession to the late hour. His dark hair was shorter than I remembered, making his sharp jawline even more pronounced. But those eyes—steel gray, calculating, cold—hadn't changed at all.
"How did you get back here?" I demanded.
"I own the east wing." His gaze flicked dismissively around the room. "Thorn Technologies donated the cardiac imaging center last year."
Of course he did. I should have checked the donor wall more carefully when I took this job.
"Well, Mr. Thorn, your money doesn't buy you access to patient rooms. I'll have security escort you out."
He didn't move. Instead, his eyes shifted to the bed behind me. To Lily.
Something changed in his expression. A stillness came over him, like a predator scenting prey. He stepped forward, and I moved to block him.
"That's far enough."
He ignored me, his gaze locked on my daughter's sleeping face. "How old is she?"
My throat tightened. "That's none of your business."
"Four years and approximately three months, I'd estimate." His voice was eerily calm. "Born in late August or early September."
My silence confirmed it. He did the math instantly; I could see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes.
"Interesting timing, considering our encounter at the Boston medical conference was exactly five years ago in December."
I lifted my chin. "I said it's none of your business."
Nathaniel moved closer, and I stood my ground despite the hammering of my heart. He reached past me—not touching me, but close enough that I could smell his cologne, sandalwood and something metallic—and picked up the chart at the foot of Lily's bed.
"Patient demonstrates exceptional cognitive abilities," he read aloud. "Memory capacity in the 99.8 percentile for her age group." His eyes met mine. "The Thorn eidetic memory is a documented genetic trait. Appears in less than 0.01% of the population."
He set down the chart and looked at Lily again. Her eyelids fluttered in sleep, revealing just a glimpse of irises the exact same shade of gray as his own.
"You stole my DNA," he said, a cold smile forming. "Quite literally."
"I didn't steal anything." My voice was steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "And I suggest you leave before I call security."
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded document, placing it on the bedside table. "My attorneys will be in touch. I'll be filing for a paternity test and shared custody."
The room tilted slightly. "You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious about what belongs to me, Dr. Bennett." His eyes were arctic. "You've kept my heir from me for four years. That ends tonight."
Something in me snapped. This man—this billionaire who collected people and things like assets—thought he could walk in and claim my daughter? The daughter he never knew existed because I'd seen the framed manifesto in his office: "Marriage and children are inefficient emotional liabilities."
I reached for the syringe of midazolam I'd prepared earlier for Lily's procedure.
"Mr. Thorn, you're causing distress to my patient." I stepped toward him, professional smile in place. "And you're trespassing in a secure medical facility."
"I don't think you understand who—"
I jabbed the needle into his arm through the expensive suit. His eyes widened in shock.
"That was 5mg of midazolam," I said calmly. "Consider it the price of admission for barging into my ER."
He staggered slightly, grabbing the doorframe for support. "You—"
"Will have security take you to the executive lounge to sleep it off? Yes, I will." I pressed the call button. "And when you wake up, remember this: Lily is my daughter. You're just the sperm donor who made it clear he never wanted children."
As his knees began to buckle and security arrived, Nathaniel's eyes never left mine. Even through the chemical haze, his expression promised one thing:
This war had just begun.
