Chapter 3 - The Return of the Founder
On the fourth afternoon, the heavy double doors of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit swung open.
Wade walked in.
He was wearing a tailored charcoal coat, a crisp white shirt, and the silver cuff links I had given him. He looked exhausted, but it was the dramatic, photogenic exhaustion of an executive who had flown across the country to deal with a crisis. Behind him was his senior publicist, a woman named Karen, carrying a iPad and two folders.
He didn't look at the babies first. He looked at me.
I was sitting in a wooden rocking chair, wearing a hospital gown, my hair tied back in a messy bun, dark circles carved deep beneath my eyes.
"Maren!" Wade rushed forward, his hands outstretched, his face contorted into an expression of desperate, theatrical grief. "My God, Maren! I’ve been out of my mind! I tried to call you fifty times! Why was your phone off? Why didn't you tell me it was this urgent?"
I didn't move. I didn't reach out. I sat perfectly still in the rocking chair, resting my hands over the warm blanket on my lap.
"The doctor told you thirty-four weeks was critical," I said softly. My tone was as flat and cold as the slate floor he had left me on. "I left seventeen messages before I went into surgery."
Wade flinched, but he recovered quickly—he was, after all, a master of public relations. He took a half-step back, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "I was in a meeting with key stakeholders in Napa, Maren! Cell reception at the estate was terrible! As soon as I saw the alerts, I booked a charter! Do you have any idea what I went through trying to get back here?"
"What you went through?" I asked.
I turned my head slowly and looked at the three incubators lined up against the glass wall.
"Arthur weighs twenty-five ounces, Wade. His lungs aren't fully formed. Leo had a brain bleed yesterday afternoon. Clara is fighting to keep her oxygen levels above eighty percent."
I turned back to him, my gaze locking onto his eyes until he looked down at his polished leather shoes. "Which part of your Napa dinner helped them breathe?"
Behind him, his publicist Karen shifted uncomfortably, closing her iPad.
"Wade," Karen whispered softly. "Maybe I should step outside..."
"No," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the oxygen machines. "Stay, Karen. You're his handler. You should hear this."
Wade smoothed his coat, trying to regain his authority. He stepped closer to my chair, dropping his voice into the warm, persuasive register he used during investor pitches.
"Maren, listen to me. I know you're emotional. You've been through a traumatic medical event. The hormones, the pain—it’s making you see things out of perspective. I’m here now. I’ve arranged for a private night nurse team to take over at the house. I’ve already spoken to the hospital administrator to get you moved to the VIP wing—"
"I don't want the VIP wing," I said.
"Maren, be reasonable," he snapped, a flicker of his true impatience breaking through his smooth exterior. "We have an image to maintain. The company is closing a thirty-million-dollar buyout deal with Apex Health next month. The press is already asking why I canceled my keynote in Baltimore this morning. We need to release a statement about the premature birth—something about family, resilience, how Northstar Training stands behind every caregiver—"
"Northstar Training," I repeated slowly.
"Yes! It's the biggest moment of our lives!" Wade said, his eyes shining with the familiar, hungry light of ambition. "When this deal closes, we’re set for life. The babies will have everything. You'll never have to worry about a single bill."
I looked at him for a long, silent moment.
For eight years, I had thought he was a good man who was simply overwhelmed by the weight of building a dream. I had thought if I carried the quiet load at home, he would eventually come back to the table and see me.
Now, looking at his immaculate coat and smelling the faint scent of Napa valley oak and expensive cologne on his skin, I realized the truth:
Wade didn't have a soul under his ambition. The ambition was his soul.
"Where is Tessa?" I asked quietly.
Wade froze. "What?"
"Tessa Carver. The woman whose birthday cake you were cutting while I was being cut open."
Wade’s face went dark red. "She's our Vice President of Partnerships, Maren! It was a business dinner! She arranged the investor meeting at the vineyard!"
"She posted the photo at 9:15 PM," I said, my voice steady and measured. "My first contraction was at 9:18 PM. You turned your phone off at 9:22 PM. Seventeen calls, Wade. Not one answered."
Wade waved his hand dismissively, though his fingers were twitching. "This is ridiculous! You're dragging personal jealousy into a multi-million-dollar corporate merger! I came here to be with my children!"
He stepped toward Leo’s incubator, reaching out a hand as if to touch the glass for a photo opportunity.
"Don't touch him," I said.
The command was so absolute that Wade stopped with his hand three inches from the plastic hood.
"You don't get to use them for your press release," I said, standing up from the rocking chair. I was unsteady on my feet, holding the back of the chair for support, but I stood at my full height. "And you don't get to use my work for your buyout."
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Wade laughed—a short, nervous, arrogant sound. "Your work? Maren, you're a rehab specialist. I built Northstar. I raised the capital. My name is on the registration."
"Your name is on the corporate filing," I corrected him. "My signature is on the original copyright."
