Chapter 3 - The War RoomThe rhythmic, rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of my baby’s heartbeat filled the small ultrasound room at the local hospital. I closed my eyes, letting the sound wash over me like a balm.
"The baby looks perfect, Claire," Dr. Evans said gently, wiping the gel from my belly. She was an ER physician, not my regular obstetrician—the one Ethan had charmed into believing I was hysterical. "Placenta is intact, amniotic fluid looks good. No signs of fetal distress."
Tears, hot and fast, finally spilled over my cheeks. I had spent the last three hours terrified that Ethan’s final shove had harmed the only thing keeping me going.
"Thank you," I choked out.
My father stood in the corner of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes bloodshot but violently awake. He had been on the phone non-stop for two hours.
As the doctor left, my father pulled a chair up to the side of my hospital bed.
"Here is where we stand," he said, shifting into full tactical mode. "Local PD has Ethan in lockup. They’re charging him with aggravated assault on a pregnant person, which is a felony in this state. He’s going to face a judge for a bail hearing tomorrow morning."
"Will they let him out?" I asked, my heart rate spiking.
"Margaret is draining her savings as we speak to hire a high-powered defense attorney," my father replied grimly. "Chances are, he’ll make bail. But I’ve already secured a temporary restraining order. He cannot come within five hundred feet of you, the house, or the hospital."
"What about the Army?"
My father’s lips curled into a predatory smile. "I pulled a few strings with JAG. I forwarded the digital copies of your journal to his commanding officer. Ethan is being suspended from active duty pending the criminal investigation. They are looking at him for Conduct Unbecoming an Officer, Assault, and Fraud."
"Fraud?" I echoed, sitting up slightly.
"When I was digging into the estate papers while you were being examined," my father explained, pulling a folder from his briefcase, "I found out why he’s been so desperate to prove you’re mentally unstable."
He laid a stack of financial documents on my lap.
"Ethan is broke, Claire. He owes over two hundred thousand dollars to illegal sports bookies. He’s been gambling online for years. He thought marrying you would give him access to your mother’s trust. When he realized the trust was locked up until you turned thirty, or until you willingly signed it over, he panicked."
I stared at the numbers on the page, feeling sick. The man I had slept next to, the man who was supposed to be the father of my child, had viewed me as nothing more than a bank account.
"If he could prove you were suffering from severe prenatal psychosis," my father continued gently, "and if he had you committed, he could apply for a legal conservatorship. As your husband and conservator, he would have full, unrestricted access to the trust."
"He didn't want the baby," I realized, the horror dawning on me. "He wanted me locked away so he could steal the house and the money to pay off his debts."
"He’s desperate, Claire. And desperate men make mistakes." My father took my hand. "We are going to crush him."
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the bedside table. I reached for it. It was a text message from a number I didn't recognize.
You think you won. He's coming for you. You better watch your back, crazy girl.
My father snatched the phone from my hand, his eyes darkening as he read the screen.
May you like
"Margaret," he muttered.
"Or one of his bookies," I whispered, pulling the hospital blanket tighter around my shoulders.
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