Rise Of The True Heir

Chapter 7

The intensive care corridor erupted in laughter.

Terry threw his head back, his amusement echoing off the sterile walls with genuine delight. Bella doubled over beside him, one manicured hand pressed against the wall for support as she giggled uncontrollably.

"Did everyone hear that?" Terry wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, gesturing toward Richard with theatrical flair. "The slum rat thinks he can make demands. Tell me, Richard, who exactly did you just call? Your fairy godmother? The President? Or maybe one of your scholarship committee friends?"

The nurses at the station exchanged nervous glances, a few unable to suppress their own chuckles. Dr. Aris, the attending physician, stepped forward with an eager smile, clearly sensing an opportunity to curry favor.

"Young Master Simpson is being incredibly generous by even allowing you to stand in this hallway," Dr. Aris said, looking at Richard with undisguised contempt. "A person of your... background... should be grateful for the charity you've already received."

Richard stood perfectly still, his phone gripped tightly in his bloodied hand. His knuckles were white from pressure, fresh crescents of blood seeping from where his nails had broken skin. He kept his expression carefully controlled, refusing to give Terry the satisfaction of seeing him break.

"You think a phone call is going to change anything?" Terry took a slow, deliberate step closer, his voice dripping with condescension. "Let me educate you about how the real world operates, Richard. Even if you somehow possessed the personal number of the President of this country, it wouldn't make a single difference in this building."

Richard didn't respond, his dark eyes fixed on the door to Room 302.

"Do you know why?" Terry spread his arms wide, encompassing the entire ward. "Because this hospital belongs to me. Not the board of directors, not some government agency, not the Simpson Foundation. Me, personally."

A murmur of interest rippled through the small crowd that had gathered.

Terry basked in their attention, his chest puffing with pride. "My grandfather gifted me the controlling shares and property deed to City General Hospital on my twenty-first birthday. Every brick in this building, every machine keeping your pathetic mother breathing, every salary paid to these doctors and nurses—all of it flows through my personal accounts."

The collective gasp of admiration was immediate and genuine.

"To receive such a monumental gift at twenty-one," a senior nurse whispered loudly. "The Simpson patriarch must value Young Master Terry beyond measure."

"He truly is the undisputed king of the medical district," Dr. Aris chimed in, nodding vigorously. "That beggar is completely delusional if he thinks anyone can override the actual owner."

Bella straightened, smoothing her designer dress with satisfaction. "That's right. This isn't some public hospital where you can file complaints or cry to the media. This is Terry's private property. His word is the only law that matters here."

Terry soaked in the flattery like sunlight, his smile growing wider with each compliment. He looked at Richard expectantly, waiting for the familiar submission, the broken acknowledgment of defeat he'd grown accustomed to over three years.

Instead, Richard just stared at him with cold, unwavering patience.

"Your arrogance is going to destroy you, Terry," Richard said quietly, his voice cutting through the sycophantic murmurs.

Terry's smile vanished instantly, replaced by a dark scowl. The defiance in Richard's eyes was a direct insult to his authority, a challenge he couldn't allow to stand.

"Security!" Terry snapped his fingers sharply. "Restrain him. I want him to watch every second of this."

Four burly guards in dark uniforms immediately stepped forward, grabbing Richard by the arms and shoulders. Richard's muscles tensed instinctively, every combat reflex screaming at him to break free, but he forced himself to endure their grip. He needed time. He needed to trust whatever promise had been made on that phone call.

"Dr. Aris," Terry commanded, pointing toward Room 302. "Go disconnect the patient. Have the orderlies remove her to the back alley where the rest of the hospital waste is disposed of."

"Immediately, Young Master Simpson," Dr. Aris replied eagerly, signaling for two orderlies to follow him.

Through the glass window, Richard was forced to watch as they approached his mother's bed. Her heart monitor beeped with a fragile, irregular rhythm. The orderlies callously grabbed the edges of her bedsheets, preparing to drag the unconscious woman from her life-support systems.

"Don't you dare touch her!" Richard roared, his self-control finally cracking.

He surged forward with explosive strength, dragging all four security guards several feet across the polished floor. His eyes burned with terrifying intensity, his breathing ragged. The guards cursed, throwing their combined weight against him to pin him to the corridor wall.

"Watch closely, Richard," Bella taunted, stepping closer to examine his struggling form. "This is what happens when you forget your place. You should have just signed the confession like a good little servant."

Inside Room 302, Dr. Aris reached for the ventilator controls.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor exploded open with a violent crash that echoed like thunder.

Everyone in the hallway jumped, heads turning toward the sudden intrusion.

A middle-aged man in an expensive charcoal suit sprinted through the doors, his chest heaving, his face slick with panicked sweat. His silk tie was thrown over his shoulder, and he clutched a communication tablet so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.

Director Sterling, chief executive administrator of City General Hospital, a man whose wealth and influence made local politicians bow their heads in respect.

Sterling didn't pause to catch his breath. He shoved two nurses aside, his wild eyes sweeping the corridor until they landed on the scene outside Room 302.

"What in God's name is happening here?!" Sterling bellowed, his voice cracking with unprecedented panic.

Terry rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by the dramatic interruption. He looked at the sweating executive with mild distaste, casually adjusting his designer cuffs.

"Calm down, Sterling. There's no need for theatrics in my hospital," Terry replied rudely, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "It's exactly what it looks like. We're simply taking out the trash."

Director Sterling froze, his eyes darting from Terry's arrogant face to the guards restraining Richard, to the orderlies manhandling the patient inside Room 302. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a man who had just discovered a live bomb.

Without hesitation, Sterling closed the distance between them.

He raised his right hand high and brought it down across Terry's face with a sickening, deafening crack.

The force of the slap spun Terry completely around, his expensive shoes slipping on the polished floor as he crashed into the nurses' station counter. Blood instantly exploded from his split lip, splattering across his pristine white shirt.

"The only trash that needs to be taken out of this hospital," Sterling screamed, his voice vibrating with absolute terror, "is you!"

The entire intensive care unit plunged into a silence so profound that heartbeats seemed thunderous.

Bella's jaw dropped, her eyes bulging as she stared at Terry's bleeding face. The security guards holding Richard went completely slack, their grips loosening in pure disbelief. Dr. Aris, standing inside the hospital room, dropped the ventilator cables as if they'd caught fire.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

They were frozen in complete, utter shock, their minds incapable of processing the impossible reality of the hospital director striking the untouchable heir of the Simpson family.

The heart monitor in Room 302 continued its steady beeping, the only sound in a corridor where the natural order of power had just been violently, irrevocably shattered.