Chapter 3 - The Summons
"Clara Hayes?"
The taller of the two men stepped forward before Clara could even reach for her timecard. He looked like an executive security operative—short-cropped gray hair, broad shoulders filling out an expensive suit, and an earpiece curling behind his left ear. His tone wasn't aggressive, but it carried the absolute weight of someone who was never told no.
"Yes?" Clara shrank back slightly, her hand instinctively protecting her worn apron. "Did I forget to sign out my locker last night? I made sure the storage room was locked before I left."
"I am David Vance," the man said, offering a crisp nod that wasn't quite a bow. "I am Julian Vance's older brother and the Chief Operating Officer of Vance Global. This is Mr. Sterling, our general counsel."
The second man—thinner, wearing silver-rimmed glasses and holding a sleek leather briefcase—gave her a cold, analytical appraisal that made her skin prickle. He looked at her gray uniform, her scuffed sneakers, and her bruised knuckles with the expression of an auditor calculating the depreciation of a damaged asset.
"Is... is Mr. Vance alright?" Clara asked, her voice dropping as a knot of dread tightened in her stomach. "Marcus said he was in the ICU."
"My brother is stable," David replied, though the deep circles under his eyes betrayed a sleepless night of panic. "He underwent a double coronary bypass at four this morning to clear a genetic arterial occlusion. He is currently awake, off the ventilator, and demanding to see the person who performed his resuscitation."
Clara blinked, thrown entirely off balance. "See me? Why? The doctors saved him."
"The doctors repaired his artery," Mr. Sterling interjected smoothly, his voice like dry parchment. "You kept his cerebral cortex from starving of oxygen for twelve minutes. However, there are... procedural and legal formalities that must be addressed whenever an incident of this magnitude occurs on corporate property."
He stepped closer, tapping his briefcase against his thigh. "Mr. Vance is currently in the private VIP recovery wing at Swedish Medical Center. A car is waiting at the curb. You are instructed to accompany us immediately."
"I have a shift," Clara said, looking toward the time clock where her supervisor, a red-faced man named Gary who docked pay for being two minutes late, was already scowling at her from across the room. "If I miss my floor rotation, I'll be written up."
David Vance turned his head slightly toward Gary. He didn't raise his voice; he simply looked at the supervisor with a gaze so glacial that Gary instantly found something very interesting to inspect on his clipboard and retreated into his office, closing the door behind him.
"Your supervisor has been informed that you are on paid administrative leave for the remainder of the week," David said, turning back to Clara. "Please, Ms. Hayes. My brother is not a patient who accepts delays."
Ten minutes later, Clara found herself sitting in the back of a black, bulletproof Mercedes-Maybach, staring out the tinted windows as the city streets slid past in silence. The leather seats smelled of new car scent and expensive cologne—the exact same scent that had lingered on Julian’s ruined shirt the night before.
When they arrived at the hospital, they didn't use the public lobby. They were escorted through a subterranean garage, up a private elevator keyed only to David’s badge, and into a hospital wing that looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility. Real art hung on the walls, the nurses wore designer scrubs, and two private security guards stood outside the double doors at the end of the hall.
David pushed the doors open and stepped aside, gesturing for Clara to enter first.
The room was vast, illuminated by the soft, orange glow of the Seattle evening sun reflecting off the Puget Sound. In the center of the room, propped up on three white pillows in a specialized hospital bed, was Julian Vance.
He looked different without the gray pallor of death. His skin had regained a healthy, Mediterranean warmth, though his sharp cheekbones were prominent under the harsh hospital lighting. He was wearing a dark silk hospital gown unbuttoned at the throat to accommodate several cardiac telemetry leads that disappeared beneath the fabric. His dark hair was brushed back, framing a face that was undeniably, intimidatingly handsome—and his storm-cloud eyes were fixed directly on the doorway the moment it opened.
"David," Julian’s voice was a low, raspy gravel, worn thin by the endotracheal tube that had been in his throat for hours. "Get out."
"Julian, the legal team advises that we should be present during—" Mr. Sterling began, stepping forward with his briefcase.
May you like
"I said get out, Sterling," Julian repeated, his tone dropping an octave without losing an ounce of its commanding force. "Take David and sit in the hall. And close the door behind you."
The two men didn't argue. They retreated instantly, the heavy oak door clicking shut with a finality that left Clara standing entirely alone in the center of the Persian rug, clutching her gray janitor's cap in her bruised hands while the man whose life she had bought with her own sweat stared at her in silence.
