Chapter 2 - THE BABY HIS FATHER NEVER CAME TO SEE
“Does my husband know?”
The nurse looked toward the door.
It was such a small movement.
But I understood immediately that something was wrong.
“Please,” I whispered. “Just tell me.”
“Mr. Marlowe was notified that you were taken into surgery.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Her expression softened.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Marlowe. I don't know where your husband is.”
I turned my face toward the window.
Outside, Chicago was waking beneath a pale November sky.
Somewhere in this hospital, my son was fighting to breathe.
And his father was missing.
I waited six hours.
Every time footsteps passed my room, I looked toward the door.
Every time a nurse entered, I searched behind her.
At eleven that morning, Owen Hale appeared.
His gray suit was wrinkled.
There was dried blood on his collar.
A white bandage covered his left hand.
Owen had worked for Vincent since before our marriage. He was forty-eight, quiet, and possessed the kind of loyalty that made people trust him with things they would never tell their own brothers.
He stopped when he saw me.
“Mrs. Marlowe.”
“Where is Vincent?”
Owen removed his coat.
“He's handling what happened.”
I stared at him.
“Handling?”
“Nora—”
“My son weighs less than four pounds, Owen.”
His jaw tightened.
“He's alive?”
“You didn't know?”
Something changed in Owen's face.
Not relief.
Shock.
“Nobody told you?” I asked.
He looked away.
I felt the room tilt.
“Where is my husband?”
“Camille was taken to another hospital.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I laughed.
It was a terrible sound.
“Of course she was.”
“There's more happening than you understand.”
“Then explain it.”
Owen moved closer to the bed.
“The attack wasn't random. Someone knew the security arrangement. They knew which doors would be unlocked for catering and which cameras would be down during the presentation.”
“And Vincent is investigating.”
“Yes.”
“With Camille.”
Owen said nothing.
I turned toward the wall.
“Get out.”
“Nora, please.”
“Get out before I say something I can't take back.”
He stayed another moment.
Then he left.
Twenty minutes later, a neonatal nurse brought me a photograph.
My son lay inside an incubator, covered with tiny wires.
His skin was reddish.
His eyes were closed.
One hand rested beside his cheek.
There was a blue hospital bracelet around his ankle.
I stared at that photograph until the numbers on the monitor beside my bed blurred.
The nurse had written his birth weight on the back.
Three pounds, fourteen ounces.
I traced the words with my thumb.
Vincent had wanted to name him Alexander, after his grandfather.
I had preferred Samuel, after my father.
We had argued about it over breakfast for weeks.
Now neither name felt right.
I looked at the photograph again.
“Daniel,” I whispered.
My father's middle name.
A name that belonged to neither family empire nor unfinished war.
“His name is Daniel.”
That afternoon, I saw him.
The neonatal unit smelled of disinfectant and warm plastic.
A nurse helped me into a chair beside his incubator.
I couldn't hold him yet.
My body still hurt too much to sit comfortably, and Daniel needed help breathing.
But I could put one finger through the opening.
His tiny hand closed around it.
I started crying.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
His fingers barely reached around mine.
“I'm your mommy.”
He moved his mouth.
No sound came.
“I know,” I whispered. “This isn't how we planned it.”
I sat there for almost an hour.
And for the first time since the ballroom, I stopped waiting for Vincent.
That evening, Owen returned with a small black velvet box.
I recognized it.
Vincent kept it in the safe beside our bedroom.
Inside was his grandmother's sapphire bracelet.
He had promised to give it to me after our son was born.
Owen placed the box beside my bed.
“Mr. Marlowe asked me to bring this.”
I stared at it.
“Did he?”
“He wanted you to have it.”
“Did he ask about Daniel?”
Owen hesitated.
“He asked whether the baby survived.”
I looked down.
Whether.
Not how he was breathing.
Not whether he needed surgery.
Not whether his tiny heart was strong enough.
Whether.
“Tell Vincent I don't want the bracelet.”
Owen didn't move.
“Mrs. Marlowe, I need you to listen carefully.”
His tone made me look up.
“Security found something at the house.”
“What?”
“A photograph. It was taken during the foundation dinner.”
He removed a folded piece of paper from his jacket.
It was a surveillance image.
Camille stood near the conservatory.
A man in a dark coat was handing her something.
The photograph was grainy, but I recognized the man.
“That's Richard Vale.”
Owen nodded.
Richard was Vincent's chief financial officer.
He had attended every family birthday dinner for six years.
“He was killed during the attack,” Owen said.
I stared at the image.
“Why would Richard be meeting Camille?”
“We don't know.”
“Does Vincent know?”
“Yes.”
Something about Owen's voice bothered me.
“You're not telling me everything.”
He looked toward the closed door.
“Vincent believes Richard was involved in the attack.”
“And Camille?”
“That's where things become complicated.”
He stopped.
Then he reached into his pocket.
There was another photograph.
This one showed Vincent leaving the hospital where Camille had been taken.
His coat was wrapped around her shoulders.
Her head rested against his chest.
A timestamp appeared at the bottom.
4:38 A.M.
Four hours after my surgery.
While I lay unconscious.
While Daniel struggled to breathe.
My husband had carried another woman out of a hospital.
I handed the photograph back.
“I'm finished.”
“Nora—”
“No.”
I reached for the sapphire bracelet and pressed the box into Owen's hand.
“Tell Vincent he doesn't get to purchase forgiveness with jewelry.”
Owen's expression changed.
“He knows you're angry.”
I looked directly at him.
“Angry?”
My voice was frighteningly calm.
“Angry is what I felt when he forgot our anniversary.”
I pointed toward the neonatal unit.
“My son almost died.”
Owen lowered his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then why are you still defending him?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Because I saw something that night.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Owen stepped closer.
“When Vincent turned toward Camille, the gunman behind her wasn't aiming at Camille anymore.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
“Who was he aiming at?”
Owen swallowed.
“You.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“He had a clear line of fire through the ballroom. Vincent saw it.”
“Then why didn't he come to me?”
“Because the man holding Camille had something Vincent believed could get you killed before anyone reached you.”
I stared at him.
“What was on that drive?”
Owen didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his coat one last time.
He placed a small silver object on my blanket.
It was a man's wristwatch.
The glass was cracked.
The hands had stopped at 9:18.
I recognized it instantly.
Vincent had given that watch to Richard Vale for his fiftieth birthday.
“Where did you find this?”
“Under the table near the conservatory.”
I turned it over.
On the back, beneath the inscription from Vincent, someone had scratched four words into the metal.
Four words that made my blood run cold.
NORA WAS THE TARGET.
And beneath them was something worse.
A tiny engraving of a blue butterfly.
May you like
The same butterfly painted on the nursery wall.
A design only five people had known about before the attack.
