Chapter Three: The VIP Room
Khloe had never been afraid of Isabella until that night.
Annoyed, yes. Hurt, sometimes. Suspicious, often.
But fear was different.
Fear entered the room when Isabella stopped pretending to be reasonable.
It entered when she locked the door.
It entered when she smiled at Khloe’s belly like the baby was not a child but an obstacle.
“Isabella,” Khloe said, keeping her voice low, “whatever you’re thinking, don’t do this.”
Isabella laughed softly.
“You still think this is about thinking?”
Khloe looked toward the call button on the wall. It was near the bed. Too far.
Her phone was inside her clutch on the sofa. Also too far.
She tried to breathe slowly.
One breath for herself.
One breath for the baby.
“I know you’re angry,” Khloe said. “But Marcus won’t believe—”
“Marcus believes what he is shown.”
Isabella lifted her phone.
On the screen was a drafted message.
Khloe could see only a few words, but they were enough.
Khloe hit me.
I’m scared.
The baby made her unstable.
Khloe’s stomach twisted.
“You’re going to lie?”
“I’m going to survive.”
“Survive what?”
Isabella’s eyes shone.
“You.”
Khloe stared at her, stunned.
Isabella stepped closer.
“Do you know what it’s like to build a man back up from nothing and then watch him give his name to someone who brought him nothing?”
Khloe’s voice hardened. “I am not a thing he purchased.”
“No. You’re worse. You’re a story.” Isabella’s mouth curled. “Poor girl with a golden heart. Pregnant wife. Charity angel. Everyone loves you because you make rich people feel forgiven.”
Khloe felt tears burn, but she refused to let them fall.
“You need help.”
“I need my life back.”
“It was never yours.”
The words came out quietly.
But they hit Isabella with force.
Her face changed.
For a second, Khloe knew what was about to happen.
She turned sideways, trying to protect her belly.
Isabella lunged.
The push was hard enough to knock Khloe off balance.
She reached for the bed rail and missed.
Her knees hit the floor first, then her shoulder. Pain flashed through her side. Not sharp enough to make her scream, but enough to steal her breath.
Her hands flew to her belly.
“No,” she gasped. “No, no…”
The baby moved.
Thank God.
Khloe tried to crawl back against the bed.
Isabella stood over her, breathing fast.
For a moment, even she seemed shocked by what she had done.
Then the shock turned into calculation.
She lifted her phone and pressed call.
“Marcus,” she cried the moment he answered. “I’m at the hospital. Khloe attacked me.”
Khloe looked up in disbelief.
“Isabella…”
“She lost control,” Isabella sobbed into the phone. “I only came to check on her, and she shoved me. She said I was trying to steal you.”
Khloe tried to reach for the bed rail.
Pain tightened again.
“Please,” she whispered. “My baby…”
Isabella glanced down at her.
Then she said loudly, “She’s pretending now. Marcus, hurry.”
She ended the call.
Khloe stared at her.
“You’re evil.”
Isabella’s expression hardened.
“No. I’m smarter than you.”
She took two steps closer.
Khloe’s back pressed against the side of the bed.
“Stay away from me.”
Isabella crouched slightly, her red dress pooling around her like spilled wine.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “When Marcus comes in, you will be hysterical. I will be injured. His mother will confirm you’ve been unstable for months. The board will urge him to protect the Cole name. And after the baby is born, you will be quietly removed from his life.”
Khloe’s throat tightened.
“You think he’ll let you take my child?”
Isabella smiled.
“Not me. The family.”
Khloe’s blood ran cold.
Vivian.
Of course.
Pieces connected with sickening clarity.
Vivian’s comments about Khloe being fragile. The sudden concern about stress. The private nurse Vivian recommended. The legal documents Marcus never showed her but Vivian mentioned once by mistake.
Custody preparation.
Not because Khloe was unstable.
Because they planned to make her look unstable.
Khloe’s hand moved slowly toward the fallen receiver.
Isabella noticed.
She stepped on the cord.
“Don’t.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“I already have.”
A soft click sounded above them.
Neither woman noticed.
In the corner of the VIP room, near the ceiling, a small black security camera adjusted focus.
It had not been there when Khloe arrived.
At least, she had not seen it.
But someone had.
Down the hall, in a private monitoring room, an older doctor stood before a wall of screens with his face gone still.
Dr. Nathaniel Reed had worked at St. Aurelia for forty-two years.
He had delivered senators’ children, billionaires’ grandchildren, and babies whose parents paid in monthly installments. He had seen fear, grief, arrogance, and miracles. He knew the difference between a woman in distress and a woman pretending.
He had been told Khloe Cole was in the VIP wing.
He had gone there because her name meant something to him.
Not Cole.
Khloe.
He knew that name before the world did.
He had known her mother.
And he had made a promise twenty-four years ago that he had failed to keep.
Now, on the monitor, he watched the woman in red step toward Khloe again.
Dr. Reed’s hand tightened around the tablet.
“Call security,” he told the nurse beside him.
“Doctor?”
“Now.”
Then he copied the footage.
Not the last minute.
All of it.
Because Isabella Vale had not only attacked a pregnant woman.
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She had confessed a conspiracy inside a hospital room protected by cameras Marcus Cole himself had paid to install.
And Dr. Reed knew exactly where the footage needed to go.
