Chapter 2 - The Birth of a Warrior
The fluorescent lights of the maternity ward flashed above me as the nurses rushed my gurney down the hall.
“Where is the father?” the attending nurse asked, looking around frantically. “Should we call him?”
“He’s dead to me,” I said through gritted teeth, gripping the hospital bedrails. “It’s just me and my son.”
Labor was an agonizing, terrifying blur of pain and sheer willpower. For twelve hours, I fought. I pushed until the blood vessels in my cheeks burst. Every time I felt like giving up, I pictured Julian clinking champagne glasses with Sylvia on a white sand beach. I pictured them laughing at my weakness. The rage became my epidural. It fueled me.
At 4:12 AM, the room filled with the piercing, beautiful sound of a newborn’s cry.
They placed him on my chest. He was tiny, perfect, and warm. He had my father’s dark hair and a fierce little grip. Tears finally spilled down my cheeks, but they were tears of overwhelming, ferocious love.
“He’s perfect, sweetie,” the delivery nurse whispered, wiping my forehead with a cool cloth. “Does he have a name?”
“Arthur,” I said softly, naming him after the grandfather who had built the empire Julian was currently trying to steal. “Arthur Hale. Just Hale. He will not carry his father's name.”
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While I held my son, my phone buzzed on the bedside table. It was Richard.
“It’s done,” he texted. “The locks at the estate are changed. Security is positioned at the gate. His company accounts are frozen under suspicion of fraud. The trap is sprung. Congratulations on the baby, Clara. Now, let’s go to war.”
