Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary
The Maybach glided silently through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, its interior illuminated by the warm, ambient glow of leather and mahogany.
Abigail sat in the plush rear seat, flanked by Isabella, who refused to let go of her hand. Across from them sat Matteo, his long legs stretched out, his tablet open as he quietly dispatched a series of high-level directives to his legal and financial teams.
Abigail looked out the tinted window at the passing city lights. She felt entirely surreal, like a character written into someone else’s life. Her feet were still clad in her cheap, worn server flats, her apron rested in a plastic bag at her feet, yet she was being driven in a vehicle that cost more than the house she had grown up in.
“Dr. Chen is waiting in the private suite,” Isabella said gently, squeezing Abigail’s hand. “He’s the head of maternal-fetal medicine at St. Jude’s. He delivered all three of my cousins’ babies. You’re in the best hands in the country.”
“Isabella, please,” Abigail murmured, feeling a blush warm her cheeks. “I don't need a private suite. A simple checkup at the clinic would have been fine. I don't want to be a burden.”
Matteo set his tablet down, his dark eyes shifting to meet hers.
“You are not a burden, Abigail,” Matteo said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Eight years ago, you saved the future of my family. What we give you tonight is not charity. It is a microscopic fraction of a debt that can never truly be repaid.”
Twenty minutes later, the SUV pulled into the private underground entrance of St. Jude’s Medical Center.
Within minutes, Abigail was settled into a luxurious private corner suite that looked more like a five-star hotel room than a hospital facility. Soft white robes replaced her stained uniform, a warm tea service rested on the bedside table, and Dr. Chen—a world-renowned obstetrician—was completing a thorough ultrasound.
The soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her baby’s heart filled the quiet room.
Abigail let out a long, shuddering breath, fresh tears springing to her eyes as she looked at the black-and-white monitor.
“Heartbeat is strong and steady at 145 beats per minute,” Dr. Chen announced with a warm smile, adjusting his glasses. “Placenta is intact, no signs of distress from the fall. Your lower back pain is simply muscular tension from the impact and severe physical exhaustion.”
Dr. Chen turned to look at Matteo, who stood near the window, watching the monitor with an expression of intense concentration.
“Miss Foster needs absolute bed rest for the next forty-eight hours, Mr. Romano,” Dr. Chen advised. “Her stress levels have been far too high, her iron levels are severely low, and she is significantly underweight for thirty-one weeks of gestation.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “She will have whatever she needs. Assign a dedicated private nursing team to her around the clock.”
“Understood, sir.” Dr. Chen packed his equipment, gave Abigail a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and discreetly exited the room, leaving the three of them in peace.
Isabella leaned over the bed, looking at the printout of the ultrasound image. “Look at him,” she whispered, her eyes shining with joy. “He has your nose, Abigail.”
Abigail traced the tiny, printed outline of her baby’s face. “He’s been so patient with me. I’ve been working sixteen-hour shifts, eating cold sandwiches on the subway... I was so afraid I was hurting him.”
“You will never have to work a shift again,” Matteo said smoothly, stepping over to the side of the bed. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek black leather folder, setting it gently on her bedside table.
Abigail looked at it. “What is that?”
“The deed to a brownstone on the Upper East Side,” Matteo explained. “Fully furnished, four bedrooms, a private garden, and a nursery designed by the top interior team in the city. It includes a permanent trust fund established in your son’s name that covers his healthcare, education, and living expenses through his twenty-fifth birthday.”
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. She looked from the folder to Matteo, her heart pounding.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, Mr. Romano. I can’t accept that. That’s... that’s millions of dollars. I didn't donate blood for money!”
“I know you didn't,” Matteo said softly, kneeling beside her bed so he was eye-level with her. “That is precisely why you deserve it. Eight years ago, you walked out of a hospital with five dollars in your pocket because your integrity wouldn't allow you to accept payment for saving a life. You protected my sister when she was helpless. Allow me to protect you now that you are vulnerable.”
“Abigail, please,” Isabella added softly. “If you refuse, my brother will spend the next ten years trying to buy you a bigger house. Save yourself the headache.”
Abigail let out a wet, breathless laugh, wiping a tear from her cheek. She looked down at her hands, feeling the sheer, overwhelming weight of their protection washing away three years of constant, soul-crushing fear.
Suddenly, a firm knock sounded at the suite door.
Lev, Matteo’s security chief, stepped inside, his expression grim. He leaned over and whispered something quietly into Matteo’s ear.
Abigail saw Matteo’s gray eyes darken instantly, an icy, lethal shade of steel returning to his features.
“Where is he?” Matteo asked softly.
“In the lobby downstairs,” Lev reported low. “He tried to use Miss Foster’s name to get past the desk. He brought two process servers with him.”
Abigail’s blood ran cold. “Who is it?”
Lev looked at her with sympathetic eyes. “Mark Vance. Your ex-fiancé.”
Abigail gasped, clutching her blanket tight against her chest. “Mark? How did he find me?!”
“The news coverage from the Astoria gala,” Isabella explained, her face twisting in anger. “The society blogs posted the video of the Sinclair incident twenty minutes ago. Your name and face are trending across the city.”
Abigail felt a familiar panic grip her throat. “He... he’s going to sue me. When I left him three years ago, he claimed I stole fifty thousand dollars from his business account. He threatened to have me arrested if I didn't give him full custody of whatever assets I had left!”
Matteo stood up smoothly, buttoning his tailored suit jacket. The gentle, protective man who had been looking at the ultrasound image vanished, replaced in a fraction of a second by the feared director of the Romano empire.
“Stay here with Isabella,” Matteo commanded gently, placing a hand softly over Abigail’s shoulder. “Eat your dinner. Rest.”
“Matteo, please,” Abigail pleaded, her eyes wide with fear. “Mark is vicious. He has connections in the city court system—”
Matteo offered her a tiny, dark smile that made her heart skip a beat.
May you like
“Mark Vance has connections in the municipal court,” Matteo said softly, his voice carrying the quiet, terrifying weight of absolute authority. “I own the system he walks on. I will be back in ten minutes.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, flanked by Lev and two armed guards, leaving a trail of icy silence behind him.
