Chapter 4
The speedboat shot across the waves, leaving that dull little island quickly behind until it was just a tiny black speck on the horizon.
The sea breeze hit my face, and for the first time, it actually smelled like freedom.
I stood out on the deck and took a deep breath, and it felt like all that heavy, salty, suffocating air from the island was finally gone from my lungs.
"Miss, it's pretty windy out here. Why don't you come inside and get some rest?" The man from before walked over and handed me a soft blanket, polite but not stiff.
"Thanks," I said, wrapping it around myself. "What should I call you?"
"Tom Bennett. Just call me Tom, Miss," he replied with a smile. "Mr. Summers has been worried sick about you."
Tom Bennett? I remembered now. He was one of Dad's right-hand men. I'd met him years ago, back when he was younger.
I nodded, letting it go. There was so much bottled up inside me that I needed time to process it all.
The boat didn't dock at some regular public pier. It pulled right up to a private dock.
By the dock, a car was already waiting for me.
The journey was uninterrupted.
The car finally pulled up to a private hospital tucked away from the city, so peaceful and luxurious it felt more like a resort than a medical facility.
There was no harsh smell of disinfectant. Just a subtle, soothing fragrance in the air. The staff, dressed in crisp, professional uniforms, spoke in soft, gentle voices.
My suite was ready for me, top of the line, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a meticulously kept garden.
I'd just gotten settled when the door suddenly swung open.
"Natalie!"
My mom rushed in, eyes red from crying, and hugged me tight, her voice choked with tears. "My silly girl, why did it take you so long to come home? You must have suffered so much. Why didn't you call us? Why did you keep all this to yourself?"
Right behind her was my dad.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, still standing tall and proud, but there were a few more streaks of gray at his temples now.
He looked at me, his eyes full of worry and a hint of reproach, but mostly, I saw that steady, unwavering support that only a father could give.
"It's good to have you home," he said, his voice low and steady. Just one sentence, and the wall I'd been holding up for so long almost came crashing down.
"Dad, Mom..." My nose stung and I buried my face in my mom's arms, soaking in that long-lost, unconditional warmth.
"Alright, let's have the doctor take a look at you first, Natalie. We'll talk about everything else later," my dad said, resting his hand gently on my shoulder.
They ran every test I could think of. Nothing was left out.
The head OB doctor, soft-spoken and dressed in a spotless white coat, looked over my results with a worried look on his face.
"Ms. Summers, your recent emotional stress and fatigue have had a significant impact on the baby," Lewis, the doctor, said, her tone serious.
She pointed to the ultrasound image. "The gestational sac is positioned low, and your HCG and progesterone levels are not ideal. There are clear signs of a threatened miscarriage."
My mom gripped my hand tightly, her palm icy cold.
"Dr. Lewis, are you saying..." I heard myself speak, my voice strangely calm.
"In theory, we could try medication to support the pregnancy," Lewis said, her tone serious as she adjusted her glasses.
"But even if we try to keep it, the risks afterward are extremely high."
She explained, "Placenta previa could mean repeated bleeding throughout the pregnancy, and there's a big chance the baby's growth will be restricted. Plus... your health is already very fragile. If we insist on continuing, the harm to you could be beyond measure."
She paused, met my gaze, and gave her honest advice. "From a medical standpoint, and for your own well-being, I recommend... ending the pregnancy."
The room fell silent.