Victor - Her Ruthless Husband (Ruthless Triad 3)

“I don't know.” Without warning, tears start streaming from my eyes as everything comes out in one big rush of signs and words. “I was doing so well on my own. I had this all figured out. I even pitched Cal-Mart yesterday. It was great. But some guy mugged me and stole my Aggretsuko purse, and then I woke up here. I’m pretty sure they think I’m homeless, which is understandable, maybe, but not okay. They shouldn’t treat people like this. No one deserves to be treated like this with or without insurance—which I have, but my card was in the stolen purse. I keep on telling them that. But I’ve been here for hours, and they're refusing to check to see if the baby is okay. I just need the baby to be okay. I'm so scared, Victor. So scared.”

He cups his hands to stop me from signing with the shushing sign sound, just like he used to back in Japan.

“Everything will be OK,” he signs emphatically. “I promise you. Both you and the baby will be OK.”

Victor is not a doctor, but relief floods through me as if he's wearing a white coat and announcing optimistic test results. He gathers me against his chest again, and I cling to him, so weirdly glad he’s here.

Before Victor came through, hours went by between nurses. But suddenly there’s, like, a whole fleet of them swooping in to pull me out of that hallway. The next thing I know, I'm being rolled upstairs into a suite that makes the one Victor got my mom in Texas look like a cut-rate motel room.

There’s ultra-modern furniture, satin curtains flanking a view of the Hudson, fine art hanging on walnut-paneled wood walls, and even soothing music playing overhead. If not for the nurses and doctors, I’d think that I was in the penthouse suite of some fancy hotel like the Benton New York.

More nurses arrive with machines after they transfer me from a thin rolling cot to a state-of-the-art hospital bed. They take all sorts of vitals, and a doctor who introduces himself as the head of the Manhattan University Hosptital’s Neurology department and a personal friend of Luca Ferraro appears out of nowhere to order a battery of tests.

A representative from the hospital also comes through to apologize for the mix-up. “The two nurses who interacted with you have been reprimanded,” she assures me while glancing nervously at Victor. “They’ll also be made to undergo sensitivity training before being allowed back in the ER.”

I tell her my truth, “They were horrible to me, and I hope they learn not to ever treat anyone like that again. It doesn’t matter if a patient isn’t friends with important people. I just want them to treat anyone who comes through that door with respect, no matter their reasons for being here.”

More assurances drip from the hospital representative’s mouth. And she asks if I need anything at all to make me more comfortable.

I once again answer honestly, “As much as I appreciate all the five-star treatment, I just want to make sure the baby is okay.”

As if in reply to my entreaty, another doctor in a white coat walks into the room.

And the crazy thing is, I recognize this one even though it’s been over a decade since I saw her last.

It’s Olivia Glendaver, the doctor I interviewed with to get the Women with Disabilities Clinic internship I never showed up for.

“Dr. Glendaver! What are you doing here?”

Dr. Glendaver answers with a wry smile. “A rather insistent individual called me away from a Met Opera fundraising dinner to come check you out.”

That’s when I notice that she's wearing an evening gown underneath her white coat. She’s a very dark-skinned black woman in her 30s. Not the old gray-haired white matriarch type you’d envision attending opera fundraisers.

But if I remember right from my pre-interview research, she was adopted from somewhere in Africa by someone from the Glendaver whiskey family. You know the slogan: The Best Kentucky Bourbon Courtesy of Scotland. Hence the last name that can be found between the Bullet and the Knob Creek bottles in alcohol aisles throughout America.

I don’t doubt at all that she was totally chilling at some super fancy event when someone told her she had to come here.

“Oh my God,” I start to say. “I'm sorry….”

Dr. Glendaver waves a dismissive hand.

“Believe me, this is much more my speed,” she says, pulling on gloves and dragging over an ultrasound machine. She squeezes some gel on my belly before adding, “On a personal note, I’m glad to see you’re all right. I was worried about you after you turned down that internship. I always wondered what came next for you. Mystery solved, but I’m sorry this had to happen to you for me to find out.”