Chapter 3 - The Smug Arrival: When Rowan Finally Walked In With Flowers and Excuses
By Monday afternoon, seventy-two hours had passed since I was admitted to St. Jude’s.
During those three days, Rowan had sent precisely three text messages. One bragging about the country club golf tournament he played with his mother's wealthy friends, one asking if I had remembered to pay the electric bill before going to the hospital, and one sent twenty minutes ago:
Just landed back in the city. Stopped at the supermarket near the hospital to grab you some carnations. Mom said carnations last longer. Heading up to standard maternity now. Be ready to check out, I don’t want to pay for an extra day of hospital parking.
I sat comfortably in an oversized plush armchair in the presidential suite. I was dressed in an elegant navy-blue silk loungewear set, my hair brushed and pinned back neatly. Beside me, Leo slept soundly in an Italian handcrafted walnut crib that Dad had delivered that morning.
Gideon was sitting directly opposite the double doors, comfortably seated on the massive Italian leather sofa, holding Leo’s sterling silver baby rattle in one hand while casually flipping through the morning edition of The Wall Street Journal.
At precisely 2:15 p.m., the heavy mahogany doors of the suite swung open.
Rowan strolled in, wearing a tailored linen blazer, designer sunglasses pushed up onto his styled hair, and a smug, patronizing smirk plastered across his face. In his right hand, he held a cheap, cellophane-wrapped bouquet of half-wilted pink carnations—the kind discounted in the discount bin at the grocery store.
"Well, well, well," Rowan began, his voice dripping with condescending amusement as he looked at his phone instead of me. "Look who survived without burning the world down. Mom told me you'd probably be milking this for sympathy, but honestly, Phoebe, you could have at least texted me updates instead of pouting like a child. We had to cut our boat trip short by two hours just so I could come haul your luggage—"
He froze.
Rowan’s eyes finally lifted from his phone, taking in the room around him.
The sprawling two-thousand-square-foot presidential suite. The panoramic floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the private garden pavilion. The marble-topped wet bar stocked with imported sparkling water. The private nursing station in the corner.
And then, his gaze landed on the man sitting on the sofa.
Rowan dropped the bouquet of carnations. The cheap plastic crackled loudly as it hit the hardwood floor.
His jaw went slack. The color drained from his face so rapidly that his skin took on the sickening gray hue of wet cement. His eyes bulged, darting from the silver-haired titan on the sofa to the framed corporate certificates on the wall, and finally to me.
"M-Mr... Mr. Sterling?" Rowan stammered, his voice cracking like a terrified schoolboy. He instantly smoothed down his blazer with trembling hands, swallowing hard. "G-Gideon Sterling? What... what are you doing here, sir? Is... is St. Jude’s one of your philanthropic projects? I... I’m Rowan Vance. Managing Partner of Apex Media. I’ve sent several proposals to your executive board regarding Sterling Crest Hospitality—"
Dad slowly lowered the newspaper. He didn't stand up. He didn't offer a handshake. He simply fixed Rowan with an icy, unblinking stare that had made Fortune 500 CEOs break into cold sweats in boardrooms across the globe.
"I know who you are, Rowan," Dad said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
Rowan let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh, tugging at his collar. "You do? That’s... that’s incredible, sir! Truly an honor! I apologize for the intrusion, I was just looking for my wife. The nurses at the front desk gave me this room number, but there must be a massive administrative error. My wife, Phoebe, is a freelance bookkeeper—she’s supposed to be in the standard recovery ward on the third floor. I don't know how she ended up in your private VIP quarters—"
"There is no error, Rowan," I interrupted, my voice ringing clear and steady across the room.
Rowan snapped his head toward me, his brow furrowing in irritation. "Phoebe! Shut up for a second! Can't you see I'm speaking to Gideon Sterling? Apologize to Mr. Sterling immediately for trespassing in his suite, grab the baby’s bag, and let's go before security throws us out!"
Dad slowly stood up. At six-foot-two, with broad shoulders and an aura of absolute command, he towered over Rowan.
May you like
Dad walked over to the walnut crib, gently reached in, and lifted my sleeping son into his arms. He cradled Leo against his chest with effortless grace, never taking his eyes off Rowan.
"You're speaking to my daughter, Rowan," Dad said, each word landing like a sledgehammer. "And the baby you abandoned seventy-two hours ago to eat birthday cake is my grandson."
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