Chapter 3 - THE BATTLE IN ICU
The weight of the realization hit Matthew so hard he had to lean against the wall to steady himself.
He was a father. He had a daughter—a sweet, courageous five-year-old girl who had been living in poverty, carrying her tiny possessions in a cardboard box to save her dying mother.
"Mr. Sullivan?" Claire asked gently. "Are you alright?"
"I have missed five years of her life, Claire," Matthew choked out, his eyes locked on Sarah's small, breathing form. "While I was sitting in glass boardrooms signing billion-dollar deals, my daughter was wearing gray socks on cold hospital floors."
"You didn't know, sir," Claire said softly. "Your father lied to you. He lied to both of you."
"And he will answer for it," Matthew said, his voice dropping into an icy, dangerous tone. "Is my father still attending the regional foundation dinner tonight?"
"Yes, sir. Richard Sullivan is scheduled to speak at eight o'clock."
"Cancel my appearance," Matthew ordered coldly. "And tell my legal team to freeze all discretionary family trust distributions to my father's holdings immediately. He is cut off."
Before Claire could respond, the door to the waiting room swung open. Dr. Kline walked in, wearing surgical scrubs, looking exhausted but relieved.
Matthew instantly stepped forward. "How is she?"
"She made it through the surgery, Mr. Sullivan," Dr. Kline announced, wiping sweat from his forehead. "She suffered severe internal bleeding and a fractured pelvis, but the trauma team managed to repair the damage. She is stable, though critical. We are moving her to the ICU now."
Matthew let out a long, shuddering breath. "Can I see her?"
"Yes. But she is still under heavy sedation. She won't wake up for several hours."
Matthew nodded. He walked back to the sofa, gently lifted the sleeping Sarah into his arms, and cradled her against his chest. He grabbed the cardboard box of dolls with his free hand.
"Lead the way, Doctor," Matthew said quietly.
The VIP ICU room was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of heart monitors. Anne lay in the center of the room, her face pale, an IV tube attached to her arm, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
Matthew set the cardboard box on the bedside table. He sat in the armchair beside the bed, holding the sleeping Sarah in his lap, and reached out with his trembling hand to lay his fingers gently over Anne’s cold hand.
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Seeing her face after all these years—frail, bruised, but still undeniably the woman he loved—sent an ache through his soul.
"I found you, Anne," Matthew whispered softly into the quiet room, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles. "I'm so sorry it took me so long. But I'm never letting you go again."
