Chapter 8 - The Cost of Lies
The drive to Chicago General Hospital was a blur of flashing lights and blinding terror. I left the red lockbox open in the storage unit, grabbing only the recipe journal and the police report, shoving them into my purse.
When I burst through the doors of the emergency room, my chest heaved as I searched frantically for my daughter.
"Grace Harris!" I yelled at the triage nurse. "She’s fourteen. They just brought her in."
"She’s in Room 4, ma'am. The doctor is with her."
I pushed past the double doors. Grace was lying on a stark white bed, an IV line taped to her fragile wrist. She looked terribly pale, her eyes closed, dark circles bruising the delicate skin beneath them.
"Grace," I sobbed, rushing to her side and gripping her hand. It was cold.
A doctor with tired eyes stepped out from behind the monitor. "Mrs. Harris? I'm Dr. Aris. Grace is stable. She experienced a severe vasovagal syncope—she fainted. But her blood pressure is dangerously low, and she's severely dehydrated."
"Why did she faint?" I demanded, smoothing Grace’s hair.
"Stress, primarily," the doctor said gently. "Coupled with lack of sleep and eating. Has she been under unusual pressure lately?"
I choked back a bitter laugh. Unusual pressure. Her father had erased her mother from their family legacy, and she had discovered his secret mistress.
"Yes," I whispered. "A lot of pressure."
"Keep her hydrated. We'll monitor her for a few hours before discharging her," Dr. Aris said before slipping out of the room.
I sat beside Grace’s bed, holding her hand, guilt gnawing at my insides. I had been so consumed by my war with Thomas that I hadn't noticed my daughter crumbling under the collateral damage.
The door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang.
Thomas stood in the doorway, breathless, still wearing the same suit from yesterday. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were frantic.
"Where is she?" he demanded, pushing past me to look at Grace.
"She's resting," I snapped, standing up to block him. "Keep your voice down."
He looked at the IV, his face pale. For a brief, agonizing second, I saw the man I used to love—a father terrified for his child.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"She collapsed, Thomas," I said coldly. "From stress. The stress of watching you destroy our family."
The vulnerability vanished from his face, instantly replaced by his usual defensive arrogance. "Don't put this on me, Claire. You're the one who threatened to bulldoze our flagship restaurant. You're the one tearing the company apart."
"I am taking back what is mine," I countered, my voice low but venomous.
Thomas stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Julia told me you visited the office today. You tried to blackmail her with the Silver Creek trust."
"It's not blackmail if it's true, Thomas. You embezzled corporate funds to hide a secret son for fifteen years."
Thomas froze. He looked around the hospital room, panicked that someone might have heard me.
"Keep your voice down," he hissed, grabbing my arm.
I ripped my arm away. "Don't touch me. You abandoned a boy, Thomas. You hid him away in a boarding school so you could play the perfect family man in magazines."
"I provided for him!" Thomas fiercely whispered back. "I made sure he had everything!"
"Except a father!" I shot back. "You're a coward."
Thomas glared at me, his chest heaving. "You don't understand the pressure, Claire. You never have. You just stood in the kitchen cooking while I built the empire. You think you can take me down? I am Harris Family Restaurants. The board will never side with you."
I reached into my purse. My fingers brushed against the worn leather of Arthur’s stolen recipe journal.
"You didn't build the empire, Thomas," I said quietly.
I pulled out the journal and the 1994 police report and slapped them against his chest. He caught them instinctively.
He looked down at the journal. The blood drained from his face so quickly I thought he might faint alongside our daughter.
"Where did you get this?" he choked out, recognizing the book immediately.
"Eleanor gave me the key to the lockbox," I said, watching his entire world implode. "You didn't invent a single recipe, Thomas. You stole them from Arthur Pendelton’s apartment the day he died. Your entire culinary legacy is a fraud."
Thomas stumbled back, clutching the journal like it burned his hands.
"If you don't sign over your remaining thirty percent of the company to me by tomorrow morning," I said, my voice lethal, "I will hand this journal and the police report to every food critic in Chicago. You won't just lose the business, Thomas. You will be a laughingstock."
He stared at me, defeated, ruined, a hollow man standing in a hospital room.
But before he could say a word, a quiet voice spoke from the hospital bed.
"Mom?"
Grace was awake. She was looking past Thomas, toward the doorway of the hospital room.
I turned around.
Standing in the doorway was a boy. He looked about fourteen, wearing a wrinkled prep school blazer and a backpack. He had Thomas's dark hair, but his eyes—terrified and confused—were entirely his own.
"Leo?" Thomas breathed, dropping the journal onto the floor.
May you like
The boy looked at Thomas, his voice trembling. "Julia called me. She said you needed me to come to Chicago to stop a crazy woman from destroying our family."
Leo pointed a shaking finger at me. "Is that her?"
