Chapter 5 - The Morning After|
By seven in the morning, the storm had cleared, leaving Philadelphia under a pale, washed-out November sky.
The private wing of Northwestern Memorial was quiet. Outside Catherine’s door, two men in dark gray suits stood guard—Michael’s personal security detail, sent three hours too late to secure the floor.
Catherine sat up in bed, wearing a clean cotton gown, holding Claire wrapped in a yellow flannel blanket against her chest.
The double doors swung open without a knock.
Michael Harrison walked into the room.
He looked, as he always did, entirely in control of his environment. His dark hair was combed back, his charcoal suit tailored to perfection, the heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger catching the pale morning light. But beneath his eyes were dark shadows, and his jaw was set in a tight, rigid line that usually meant someone in his organization was about to lose their life.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, his gaze shifting from Catherine to the tiny bundle in her arms.
"Catherine," he said, his voice low, vibrating with that familiar, heavy authority. "Why didn't anyone call my private line?"
Rachel, who was sitting in the corner chair, let out a sharp, bitter laugh and stood up, but Catherine held up a single hand, stopping her sister before she could speak.
Catherine looked at her husband.
For eleven years, she had looked at him with a mix of reverence, fear, and a deep, desperate desire to be the one thing he valued more than his empire. She had waited up for him until three in the morning in their quiet mansion in Chestnut Hill. She had smiled for politicians at his charity galas while knowing what lay beneath his business success.
Looking at him now, she felt nothing.
The fear was gone. The reverence was gone. Only a vast, clean slate remained.
"I called your phone four times, Michael," Catherine said, her voice completely steady.
May you like
Michael’s brow furrowed slightly, a rare crack in his composure. "My phone was with Amber in the vehicle. There was an incident down at the South Street docks—"
"Amber answered," Catherine interrupted, her tone flat. "At 3:07 a.m."
