The quiet, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the private recovery room on the fourth floor of Dallas General Hospital.
Outside the large window, the afternoon sun began to dip behind the Dallas skyline, casting warm gold light across the white floor.
Mark sat in a hard plastic chair beside the hospital bed, holding Claire's hand gently between both of his palms.
Her face was pale, but the fever had broken, and a clean intravenous drip was hooked to her arm.
The door opened softly, and Dr. Harrison walked into the room carrying a manila medical file.
Dr. Harrison: Mr. Vance? I have the post-operative report for your wife.
Mark: How is she, Doctor? Is the internal bleeding stopped?
Dr. Harrison: We were able to repair the torn abdominal fascia and restitch the incision successfully. She was very fortunate you found her when you did.
Mark: Thank God... oh, thank God...
Dr. Harrison: If she had remained on her feet for another hour, the internal hemorrhaging could have led to septic shock.
Mark: She was forced to lift iron roasting pans and stand over a hot stove for four hours straight.
Dr. Harrison: That is absolute madness. Who would force a fresh C-section patient into that kind of physical trauma?
Mark: My mother.
Dr. Harrison closed the file, his expression turning grave as he looked at the police report attached to the back folder.
Dr. Harrison: Detective Miller from the domestic violence unit is downstairs. He needs your official statement to file the formal indictment charges.
Mark: I'll go down right now. I want everything on the record.
Claire: *weakly* Mark... stay...
Mark turned back to the bed immediately, leaning down to press a soft kiss against Claire's trembling knuckles.
Mark: I'm right here, sweetheart. Don't try to sit up.
Claire: Is... is baby Emma okay with Sarah?
Mark: Emma is sound asleep at home. Sarah sent me a video ten minutes ago. She's fed, dry, and completely safe.
Claire: Your mother... she said she was going to take Emma away from me...
Mark: She will never touch our daughter again, Claire. I signed an emergency protective restraining order against her twenty minutes ago.
Claire: What about her estate lawyers? She has so much money, Mark... she always gets what she wants...
Mark: She doesn't own the judge, Claire. And she doesn't own me.
The door swung open, and Detective Miller walked into the room, holding a tablet and a small recorder.
Detective Miller: Mr. and Mrs. Vance? I'm Detective Miller. I need to take a brief statement from Mrs. Vance if she is alert enough to speak.
Mark: Take your time, Detective. She wants to give her statement.
Claire: I want her held accountable, Detective. Every single word she said to me is on that security tape.
Detective Miller: I've already reviewed the security footage, Mrs. Vance. In my twenty years on the force, I have rarely seen such clear evidence of malicious intent and medical neglect.
Mark: Will she be granted bail?
Detective Miller: Because she attempted to use illegal extortion tactics regarding a newborn child, the magistrate judge set bail at five hundred thousand dollars and ordered her to surrender her passport.
Claire: She'll pay the bail in five minutes... Five hundred thousand dollars is nothing to her...
Detective Miller: She might have the cash, Mrs. Vance, but the protective order is active immediately. If she steps within five hundred feet of your residence, your hospital, or your child, she goes straight back to a cell with no bail option.
Mark squeezed Claire's hand, feeling her body finally relax against the crisp white sheets.
Mark: Thank you, Detective. We will press every single charge possible.
Detective Miller: Rest up, Mrs. Vance. We've got it from here.