Chapter 3 - The Coldest Mother in Manhattan
Rhode Island Memorial Hospital’s emergency wing had never moved so quickly.
When Julian kicked open the automated doors carrying Clara’s limp, pale body, shouting for immediate obstetric assistance, the medical staff reacted like a unit under fire. The Sterling name carried immense weight, but the raw terror in Julian's eyes and the visible blood on his clothes demanded no bureaucracy.
Within seconds, Clara was placed on a gurney and wheeled into Trauma Bay 3. Julian tried to follow, but two doctors held him back.
"Sir, you cannot come into the sterile field! She's having severe premature labor contractions and her vitals are crashing!"
"That is my wife! That is my child!" Julian roared, his knuckles white against the metal doorframe.
"And we need room to save them, Mr. Sterling!" the lead surgeon said, his voice firm, holding Julian’s gaze. "Let us do our job, or you will lose them both."
The heavy double doors swung shut, the frosted glass hiding the flurry of nurses, defibrillator leads, and ultrasound monitors. Julian was left alone in the fluorescent-lit corridor, his chest heaving, his hands covered in a mixture of his own blood and Clara’s spilled champagne.
He sank down against the sterile wall, sliding down until his knees hit the linoleum floor. For the first time in his life, the Sterling fortune meant nothing. His family's multi-billion-dollar hedge fund, the private jets, the high-society connections—none of it could force his unborn child to breathe.
His phone began to vibrate violently in his pocket.
Julian pulled it out. The caller ID flashed: *MOTHER*.
A dark, bitter laugh escaped his throat. He stared at the screen as it buzzed relentlessly, each vibration feeling like a physical strike against his chest. Slowly, Julian slid his thumb across the glass and brought the phone to his ear.
"You have five seconds to explain why you aren't currently crawling back to the estate on your hands and knees," Eleanor’s voice came through, completely stripped of its earlier hysterical edge, replaced once again by the icy, dictatorial chill that had governed Julian's entire life.
Julian remained silent, his breath slow and ragged.
"You made a spectacle of yourself, Julian," she continued, indifferent to his silence. "Our investors from Tokyo were in that room. The Senator was in that room. You knocked over a hundred-thousand-dollar display, ruined an evening that took six months to organize, and laid hands on your mother. But because you are my son, I am prepared to overlook this temporary insanity—under two conditions."
Julian’s hand gripped the phone so tightly the tempered glass groaned under the pressure. "Go on, Eleanor."
"First: you will immediately announce that Clara suffered a hysterical episode, fell into the champagne display, and that any rumor of domestic dispute is fabricated slander. Second: once she delivers whatever it is she’s carrying, you will sign the divorce papers Marcus has already drafted. You will pay her five million dollars—more than enough for a woman of her pedestrian background—and take full custody of the child to be raised here at the estate, under my supervision. Clara will never set foot in New York or Newport again."
Julian listened to every single word. The calculated lack of empathy, the sociopathic reduction of a human life and an unborn baby to a financial transaction and a PR cleanup.
"Did you even ask if your grandchild is alive?" Julian asked softly.
There was a half-second pause on the line, barely perceptible, before Eleanor replied with callous indifference: "The Sterling bloodline survives through resilience, not sentimentality. If the child is weak, nature takes its course. Now, do we have an understanding, or do I freeze your executive privileges at Sterling Capital before midnight?"
"Eleanor," Julian said, his voice dropping into an octave so cold it seemed to freeze the cellular signal itself. "Listen to me very carefully. You spent twenty-seven years turning me into your perfect heir. You taught me how to analyze balance sheets, how to find an enemy's weakness, and how to destroy them without mercy."
He paused, rising to his feet, staring at his reflection in the dark hospital window.
"You taught me too well. Tomorrow morning, you won't be managing a PR crisis. You will be fighting for your survival. Do not call this phone again."
Julian tapped the red button, ending the call. He didn't just hang up—he removed the SIM card from the side of the device, snapped it in half between his fingers, and dropped it into a nearby biohazard bin.
At that exact moment, the double doors of the trauma unit swung open.
A doctor emerged, stripping off latex gloves stained with fluid. His face was etched with deep exhaustion, but his shoulders were relaxed.
"Mr. Sterling?"
Julian rushed forward, his heart catching in his throat. "Doctor. Clara? The baby?"
"We managed to halt the active contractions," the doctor said, letting out a long breath. "Her blood pressure spiked dangerously—she suffered an acute hypertensive crisis brought on by extreme physical and psychological shock. If you had brought her in fifteen minutes later, her placenta could have detached entirely. We would have lost them both."
Julian choked back a dry sob, covering his face with his hands for a single, vulnerable second. "Can I see her?"
"She’s heavily sedated, but stable. She’s resting in room 412," the physician nodded. "Mr. Sterling... the bruises on her scalp. The contusions on her arms. We are mandated by state law to report signs of physical battery to law enforcement."
Julian looked up, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "Don't file the standard report yet, Doctor."
"Excuse me?"
May you like
"Call the Rhode Island State Police directly. Ask for Detective Miller. Tell him Julian Sterling has a statement to make, and that it involves an attempted murder."
***
