Vaughn’s POV
"Genetically impossible."
The words hung in the sterile, bleach-scented air of the hallway.
I stared at the nurse, my mind spinning violently. I was a doctor. I was the Chief of Medicine. I knew basic hematology like the back of my hand.
An O-negative father and an O-negative or A-negative mother could not, under any circumstances, produce an AB-positive fetus. It defied the fundamental laws of biology.
"That's a mistake," I said, my voice trembling, my bloody hands gripping the edge of the gurney. "Your lab made a mistake. Run it again."
"Sir, the blood typing is automated—"
"I said run it again!" I roared.
Before the nurse could argue, a piercing, high-pitched alarm erupted from behind the swinging surgical doors.
Code Blue.
"She's crashing! V-Fib!" someone shouted from inside the operating room.
The nurse’s eyes went wide. She dropped the clipboard onto my lap and sprinted back through the doors.
"Jade!" I screamed.
I lunged forward, desperate to get into that room, but my injured legs instantly gave out. I collapsed onto the cold linoleum floor, my knees slamming into the tiles.
Through the small glass window of the OR doors, I saw the absolute chaos. The surgeons were frantically performing chest compressions on Jade's pale body.
The heart monitor flatlined, emitting a continuous, agonizing, high-pitched tone.
No. No, no, no.
The doubt, the genetic impossibility, the mismatched blood types—it all vanished instantly, swallowed whole by the sheer, paralyzing terror of losing the woman I loved.
"Clear!" the lead surgeon yelled.
Jade’s body jolted on the operating table.
Nothing. The monitor remained a flat, green line.
"Charge to 200! Clear!"
Another violent jolt.
Beep... beep... beep.
The rhythm returned. It was weak, erratic, but it was there.
I slumped against the hallway wall, burying my face in my blood-stained hands, gasping for air as if I had been drowning.
She was alive. The baby was alive.
I forced the nurse’s words completely out of my mind. It had to be a lab error. This was a rundown, underfunded county hospital. Their equipment was probably decades old. The staff was incompetent. They had mixed up the charts. That was the only logical explanation.
Jade loved me. She relied on me. She wouldn't betray me.
I just needed to get her out of this dump. I needed to get her back to Greenville General, to my elite medical staff, to my private VIP suites. I needed to reclaim my kingdom.
The next morning, I limped through the automatic sliding doors of Greenville General.
I was still wearing my ruined, blood-stained trousers and a borrowed, ill-fitting hospital scrub top. My ribs ached with every breath, and my legs screamed in protest with every step, but I didn't care.
I marched straight toward the private executive elevator in the grand marble lobby.
I needed to authorize a private, specialized ambulance transfer for Jade. I needed to access my discretionary funds to pay off the county hospital. I needed to get my life back in order.
I pulled my black executive keycard from my wallet and slapped it proudly against the scanner.
Beep. Red light.
I frowned. I swiped it again, faster this time.
Beep. Red light.
"Piece of junk," I muttered, aggressively rubbing the magnetic strip against my shirt before swiping it a third time.
Beep. Red light.
"Having trouble, Mr. Vaughn?"
I turned around. Two burly security guards were standing directly behind me. I recognized them immediately. I had personally approved their Christmas bonuses last year.
"My card is malfunctioning," I snapped, pointing at the scanner with absolute authority. "Override the system and get me up to the executive suite. And page the head of obstetrics. I need the VIP maternity ward prepped immediately. I'm transferring Jade here."
The guards didn't move. They didn't reach for their override keys.
Instead, one of them stepped forward and shoved a medium-sized cardboard box into my chest.
I instinctively caught it, wincing as the heavy weight pressed against my bruised ribs. I looked down. Inside were my framed medical degrees, my personalized Montblanc pens, and the silver nameplate from my mahogany desk.
Dr. Vaughn. Chief of Medicine.
"What the hell is this?" I demanded, my voice echoing loudly in the busy lobby. "Are you out of your minds? I am the President of this hospital!"
"Not anymore, sir," the guard said coldly, his hand resting on his radio. "We've been instructed to escort you off the premises. If you resist, we will call the police."
"Escort me off?!" I barked a manic, furious laugh. "I own this building! I hold the patents that keep this entire network running! You can't fire me!"
"They didn't fire you, Vaughn. You forfeited."
A smooth, arrogant voice cut through the tension.
I looked past the guards. Stepping out of the executive elevator was Robert Holls, the hospital's lead corporate attorney. He was wearing a crisp, tailored suit, looking down at me with absolute, undisguised disdain.
"Holls!" I yelled, stepping toward him. "What is the meaning of this? Fix this immediately! I'll have all your jobs!"
Holls adjusted his glasses, completely unbothered by my rage.
"There is nothing to fix. You signed the asset forfeiture agreement yesterday afternoon. You surrendered all your shares, your patents, and your executive authority."
"I signed a liability waiver for the helicopter!" I screamed, my mind racing back to the kitchen, to Carmela bleeding on the floor, handing me the leather folio.
"You signed a total transfer of assets," Holls corrected smoothly. "It was ironclad. Notarized and processed within the hour. You own nothing, Mr. Vaughn. You are completely destitute."
My stomach dropped. The polished marble floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
The folio. Carmela. She had switched the papers.
"No," I breathed, panic clawing violently at my throat. "No, that's fraud! That's illegal! I was tricked! I'll sue! I'll tear this place to the ground!"
"You don't have the money to hire a lawyer, let alone sue," Holls sneered.
"Who authorized this?!" I roared, throwing the cardboard box to the floor. The glass on my medical degrees shattered, scattering across the lobby. "Who bought my hospital?!"
Holls stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with cold, merciless satisfaction.
"The Vanguard Syndicate purchased the entire hospital network early this morning," Holls stated.
I froze. The Vanguard Syndicate? The ruthless billionaire empire I had been begging for a billion-dollar investment just yesterday?
"They bought it?" I stammered, confusion mixing with my rising dread. "Why?"
"They didn't just buy it as an investment, Vaughn," Holls said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "They bought it on behalf of their sole heiress."
"Heiress? What heiress?"
Holls smiled. It was a smile completely devoid of pity.
"Carmela Vanguard."
