Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Verdict
Dr. Aris Vance, a quiet, gray-haired pediatrician who had treated generations of Philadelphia’s elite—and occasionally patched up Damian’s men when public hospitals were too risky—closed his black leather medical bag with a soft click.
The master bedroom on the third floor was warm, lit only by the amber glow of bedside lamps and a crackling wood fire in the marble fireplace. Eli and Sophie were fast asleep in the massive custom-built canopy bed, buried under down comforters and wearing brand-new silk pajamas Mrs. Gable had hurriedly sourced from high-end boutiques down on Walnut Street.
Rachel sat in an armchair by the hearth, a cup of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Damian stood by the window, watching the rain streak the glass outside, his silhouette carved out of shadow and cold steel.
Dr. Vance walked over to the fireplace, wiping his glasses with a silk handkerchief.
"Well?" Damian asked before the doctor could even open his mouth. "What’s the verdict?"
"Physically, they’re resilient," Dr. Vance said, lowering his voice so as not to wake the children. "They’re small for three-year-olds—definitely showing the effects of inconsistent nutrition and chronic low-grade stress over the past few years. Sophie has the beginnings of a mild bronchial infection, which is why she’s been coughing, and Eli is slightly anemic. But with proper diet, vitamins, and a stable environment, they’ll catch up to their growth curves within six months."
Rachel closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath that sounded like years of accumulated terror finally leaving her lungs.
"And the long-term effects?" Damian asked, stepping closer. "Mental stress? Trauma?"
"Children absorb their environment, Mr. Cross," Dr. Vance said gently, looking between Damian and Rachel with discerning eyes. "They sense when a mother is running, when she’s constantly looking over her shoulder, when safety is an illusion. Mrs. Cross—or Miss Mitchell, I should say—has done an extraordinary job keeping them alive under impossible conditions. But they need stability now. They need routine. And above all, they need to know they aren't going to be packed into a suitcase at 3:00 AM again."
Damian nodded slowly. "Thank you, Aris. Send the bill to my corporate office."
"I already have," the doctor replied with a faint, knowing smile as he picked up his bag. "Goodnight, Mr. Cross. Miss Mitchell. I’ll check in on them tomorrow morning."
As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind Dr. Vance, silence descended upon the room once more, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.
Damian walked over to the armchair, kneeling down on one knee in front of Rachel. He reached out, his large, scarred hand gently covering hers where she held the teacup. She didn't pull away, but her body remained rigid, guarded.
"You heard him," Damian said softly. "They need stability. They need a home."
"This isn't a home, Damian," Rachel whispered, looking around the palatial bedroom with its silk drapes and antique oil paintings. "This is a gilded cage. You think by throwing money at doctors and silk pajamas, you can erase the last three years? You think you can just snap your fingers and we become your happy little family?"
"No," Damian said, his voice dropping into a raw, unfiltered honesty that caught Rachel off guard. "I don't think any of this is easy. I know what I am. I know what I’ve done. But I also know that for three years, every breath I took felt like inhaling glass because I didn't know if you were safe."
He reached up, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her cheek. Rachel’s breath hitched. The familiar, intoxicating scent of him—woodsmoke, expensive cologne, and rain—flooded her senses, threatening to dismantle the defenses she had spent three years building brick by brick.
"Amelia is coming tomorrow," Rachel said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Don't lie to me, Damian. Her father’s security team has already tracked your car to this house. She’s going to walk through those gates, and she’s going to demand an explanation for why you abandoned your engagement dinner to chase a ghost from your past."
Damian’s jaw tightened. "Amelia is history."
"You can't just cancel a dynasty, Damian," Rachel warned, placing her hand against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart beneath his shirt. "Men like Senator Prescott don't accept rejection. If you break off that engagement, he will declare war on you. And this time, he won't just come after your warehouses. He’ll come after them."
Damian looked over his shoulder toward the canopy bed where Eli and Sophie slept soundly, then looked back down into Rachel’s terrified, beautiful eyes.
May you like
A cold, terrifying calm settled over him.
"Let him try," Damian whispered, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, pulling her just an inch closer. "Let the senator bring everything he has. Because starting tonight, nobody touches my family."
