Chapter 3 - GHOSTS OF THE BOARDROOM
The VIP trauma suite on the eighth floor of Saint Jude’s Pavilion was quieter than a tomb. Outside, private security guards hired from an independent firm—not Mercer Security—stood at every doorway. I had paid twenty-five thousand dollars out of pocket to clear the entire wing, ensuring that no unauthorized hospital personnel or outside visitors could set foot near room 804.
Rowena lay on the hospital bed, an IV line dripping saline into her arm. A clean white bandage covered the deep gash across her forehead, and the dirt had been washed from her skin, leaving behind the striking, delicate features I had spent six agonizing years trying to forget. She was sleeping under mild sedation, exhausted by trauma and malnutrition.
In the corner of the room, curled up on a wide leather armchair, Leo slept with his small hands tucked beneath his cheek. He had eaten two bowls of warm chicken soup and a cup of fruit, devouring the food as if he hadn't seen a full meal in days. My designer jacket was draped over his shoulders like a blanket, the gold-stitched Mercer crest resting over his small back.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, holding the silver bracelet in the palm of my hand. The moonstone caught the pale moonlight, shimmering with ghostly blue hues.
Six years ago, my father, Arthur Mercer, had called me into the executive boardroom on the fiftieth floor of Mercer Tower in Manhattan. He had tossed a manila folder onto the mahogany table. Inside were photographs of Rowena walking out of a private bank branch in Zurich, followed by a signed receipt for a two-million-dollar wire transfer from a Mercer offshore account.
“She’s a gold-digger, Callahan,” my father had said, his voice cold and devoid of pity. “She took the buyout without hesitating. She signed the non-disclosure agreement, took the money, and boarded a flight to Europe. She played you for a fool, son. Forget her and focus on the merger with the Vance Corporation.”
I had believed him. Why wouldn't I? Arthur Mercer was a titan of industry, a man who built an automotive dynasty with iron discipline. I spent three months drinking myself into oblivion before channeling the heartbreak into ruthless corporate expansion. I became cold, calculating, and distant. I agreed to court Julianna Vance, the daughter of our primary supply-chain magnate, turning my personal life into a strategic alliance.
And yet, here lay Rowena Vale in a Palm Beach hospital, her shoes worn through to the soles, selling bruised flowers from a wooden cart on Worth Avenue to feed our five-year-old son.
A two-million-dollar buyout? If she had taken millions, why was she living like a fugitive in Florida?
My phone buzzed violently in my pocket, shattering the silence. The caller ID flashed: ARTHUR MERCER.
I felt a surge of adrenaline spike through my veins. I stepped out into the private corridor, closing the door softly behind me so as not to wake Leo. I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear.
“Father,” I said evenly.
“You’ve caused quite a spectacle in Palm Beach, Callahan,” Arthur’s voice boomed through the receiver, heavy with authority and disdain. “Videos of a child dumping ditch water on a Mercer Maybach are currently trending across five social media platforms. The Vance family has already called me three times this afternoon wondering why my heir is making front-page headlines over a sidewalk squabble with a vagrant.”
“The woman was injured, Father. Garrison Pike shoved her cart into traffic.”
“Pike was doing his job clearing the perimeter for your arrival,” Arthur dismissed coldly. “What concerns me is that you bypassed Mercer Security protocol, hired third-party mercenaries to lock down a hospital wing, and missed your three o'clock investor summit at the Halcyon. You are risking a four-hundred-million-dollar capital raise for an unscheduled act of public charity.”
I leaned against the sterile hospital wall, staring down at the silver moonstone bracelet in my hand. “Her name is Rowena Vale.”
The line went completely dead. For five seconds, there was only the faint hum of transatlantic satellite static.
“Arthur?” I pressed.
“Rowena Vale is dead to this family,” Arthur replied, his voice dropping into a register so dark and threatening it sent a chill down my spine. “She made her choice six years ago. She took her settlement and agreed to disappear. If she has returned to extort you, Callahan, you are playing right into her hands.”
“She didn't extort anyone. She was selling flowers on the curb. She didn't even know I was in Palm Beach.” I took a deep breath, preparing to drop the hammer. “And she wasn't alone. She has a son. A boy named Leo. He’s five years old, Father. He has our eyes. He has the Mercer crescent mark.”
Another agonizing silence stretched across the line. When Arthur spoke again, there was no surprise in his tone—only cold, calculating calculation.
“A child means nothing without certified lineage, Callahan. In our world, women like her manufacture bastards every day to claim a piece of generational trusts. You will leave that hospital immediately. You will allow Pike to transfer them to a private residence outside state lines where our legal team can handle a confidential settlement. If you defy me on this, I will call an emergency meeting of the board of directors tomorrow morning and suspend your voting proxy.”
“You knew,” I whispered, the sickening realization crashing down on me. “You knew she had a child six years ago.”
“I protect the Mercer bloodline from opportunists,” Arthur said ruthlessly. “Do not make an enemy of me, Callahan. You built Mercer Automotive with my capital. I can take it away before the markets open tomorrow.”
He hung up.
I pulled the phone from my ear, my hands shaking with suppressed rage. My father hadn't denied it. He hadn't expressed shock or confusion. He had known about Leo all along.
May you like
I turned around to re-enter the room, but when I opened the door, Rowena was sitting up in bed, her face bathed in the dim moonlight. She was clutching Leo against her chest, her eyes wide with terror as she stared at me.
“He knows, doesn't he?” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Arthur knows we’re here.”
