Chapter 3 - The Silent Recovery Room
The smell of antiseptic was the first thing to pull Maren back from the void. It was a sharp, metallic scent that clung to the back of her throat, a constant reminder of the chaos that had defined the last forty-eight hours. She opened her eyes, the fluorescent lights of the hospital room blinding her for a moment before adjusting.
The nurse, a young woman with kind eyes and a face mask that crinkled at the corners, was checking the IV drip. "You’re awake," she said softly. "I have some good news. The babies are stable. All three of them are doing well."
Maren’s breath hitched. She tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea rolled over her, and she sank back against the pillows. "Where... where is he?" she whispered.
"Who, Maren?" the nurse asked, checking her chart.
"Wade. Wade Bishop. He promised. He said he’d be here the moment he heard."
The nurse hesitated, a flicker of pity crossing her face. "The NICU is right down the hall. They’re all doing fine. You should rest now. Maybe call him later."
Later. The word hung in the air, heavy and mocking.
Maren lay there, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling. She believed, with a desperate, white-hot certainty, that Wade would walk through that door any moment. He had promised. They had built this business together, scraped together every penny, and survived the lean years. This was their reward. He wouldn’t leave her alone with three newborns. He loved her. He had to.
Days blurred into a gray, rhythmic monotony. The nurses were kind, but they were busy. They brought her ice chips and changed her bedding, but the room remained a tomb of silence. No phone calls. No flowers. No text messages from Wade.
On the third day, a social worker named Mrs. Henderson stopped by. She was a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You're a very strong woman, Maren," Mrs. Henderson said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It’s hard to be alone when you have so much to celebrate."
"I just need him to call," Maren said, her voice trembling. "He’s probably just overwhelmed. The business is huge right now."
"I’m sure that’s the case," Mrs. Henderson said soothingly, though her eyes drifted toward the door. "But if you ever feel... isolated, or like you can't cope, there are resources available. We can arrange a grief counselor if you need someone to talk to about the birth."
Grief. The word felt like a slap. "I’m not grieving," Maren snapped, though her voice lacked conviction. "I’m waiting for my husband."
Mrs. Henderson nodded and left, but the seed of doubt was planted. Why was everyone looking at her like she was fragile?
Maren needed a distraction. She needed to feel useful, needed to feel like the Maren who had built this life wasn't crumbling. She asked a nurse for a loaner laptop, a device she hadn't touched since the pregnancy had accelerated.
She powered it on and opened the browser. She typed in the URL for their business bank account, the one Wade managed. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her heart pounding. She needed to check if he had approved a vendor payment, or if he was simply caught in a board meeting.
The page loaded. There was a notification for a new login.
She stared at the screen. She hadn't logged in. She didn't have the password.
Panic flared in her chest. She typed in the password she used for everything—*Foundation2020*. It didn't work. She tried BishopTraining. Access denied. MarenWade. Denied.
She tried Love2020. Denied.
The screen went black for a second before reloading. A new notification popped up: Transaction Successful - Napa Valley.
Maren’s breath caught in her throat. Napa. It was a three-hour drive from the hospital, but a two-hour flight. She clicked on the link to the bank statement, scrolling down to the transactions from the last forty-eight hours.
* BellaVita Restaurant - $450.00
* Spa Montelena - $850.00
* Hotel Napa - Room Charge
She scrolled further. *Cabernet tasting fees.* Limo service.
Maren’s hands began to shake. The numbers were staggering. They weren't the expenses of a stressed businessman working late. They were the expenses of a man on a luxury getaway.
She remembered the credit card Wade had given her for emergencies—the one with a low limit. He had said it was for gas and groceries. She looked at her own wallet, the plastic card tucked inside. She had never used it. But she knew the last four digits. She knew his PIN.
She fumbled with the borrowed laptop, logging into their joint account. She navigated to the credit card section. The balance was nearly maxed out. And there, in the transaction history, was the same charge. Hotel Napa.
It was dated the day she went into labor.
She tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was celebrating a huge contract? Maybe he was treating Tessa, the new director, to a thank-you dinner? He had been distant lately, yes, but he had said he was focused on the company. He had said they were a team.
But the hotel charges didn't fit the narrative of a stressed CEO. They fit the narrative of a man running away.
Just as she was about to call him, the door to her room burst open. It wasn't a nurse. It was a man in a trench coat, his badge glinting under the harsh overhead light. A detective.
Maren clutched the laptop to her chest. "Is he here? Is Wade here?"
The detective didn't smile. He looked tired, his eyes dark circles framing a face that looked etched with exhaustion. He stepped inside and closed the door, the click sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Mrs. Bishop?"
"Yes. What is this about?"
The detective sat down in the chair Mrs. Henderson had vacated, pulling a notepad from his breast pocket. He looked at Maren, then at the laptop in her lap.
"Mr. Bishop hasn't checked in at the office for two days," he said quietly. "We ran his license plate. He’s not at his office. He’s not at his home."
"He’s in Napa," Maren said, her voice trembling but firm. "I saw the charges. He’s treating the staff. He’s celebrating."
The detective let out a short, bitter laugh. "That’s not what the surveillance at the airport shows, Mrs. Bishop."
"What are you talking about?"
The detective leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hush that felt conspiratorial, yet terrifying. "We intercepted a call from a private investigator hired by the bank. Mr. Bishop wasn't in Napa for a business dinner. He wasn't celebrating a contract."
Maren felt the blood drain from her face. "Then where was he?"
"Vail," the detective said. "He flew to Colorado with Ms. Carver on your wedding anniversary. He’s been there for three days. The charges at the hotel in Napa? Those were from his corporate card, paid remotely from a burner phone. He’s been paying for a suite for her, and room service, and... expensive wine."
"He’s with Tessa," Maren whispered, the world tilting on its axis.
"That’s the investigation," the detective said, his tone hardening. "But that’s not the worst part."
Maren looked up at him, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "What do you mean?"
The detective sighed, looking at his notepad again. "We ran a background check on the flights. Mr. Bishop booked two tickets to Vail. But the credit card trail shows significant withdrawals from the business accounts starting two weeks ago. Large, unexplained transfers."
May you like
Maren’s stomach twisted. "To where?"
The detective looked at her, his expression grave. "We think he’s moving money out of the company. Liquidating assets to fund this... vacation. It looks like he’s been stealing from the business, Mrs. Bishop. And he didn't just leave you in the hospital alone. He left your children without a father, and your business without a CEO."
