CHAPTER 318 JACOB

I can’t keep my eyes off the clock as I stride down the corridor of Stone Hospital, heading toward the administrative wing. The place bustles with its typical midmorning rush—nurses in scrubs hurrying past, doctors conferring over patient charts, the faint hum of medical equipment echoing through the halls. Once upon a time, I owned these corridors as CEO. Now, I’m just an outsider in my family’s hospital, an advisor at best, fielding stares from staff who have no idea how my life’s come unraveled. I try to ignore it all, breathing slowly to keep my anger at bay.

I push through glass doors into a large, sunlit office suite that used to be my domain. My chest knots at the memory. But I force myself to focus. I’m here to meet my sister Julia about the improvements we’ve been working on—break room refurbishments, staff morale initiatives, even community outreach programs. Anything to restore some goodwill after the catastrophic scandal that’s battered Stone Hospital: my parents’ sabotage, my fiancée Nyla’s arrest, the meltdown in donor trust.

Julia stands at the far side of the conference table, tapping away at a laptop hooked to a wall-mounted screen. She’s in a charcoal suit, hair pulled back in a tight bun, shoulders squared like she’s bracing for battle. Which, in a sense, she is. The bullet points displayed on the screen read: “Break Room Renovations,” “Staff Outreach,” “Local Community Clinics,” “Budget Overrun Risk,” among others.

She glances over when I enter. “Jacob,” she says, stepping forward. “You’re early.”

I shrug, trying to project calm. “Not by much. We said ten, right?” I join her at the table, scanning the bullet points. “So, show me what you’ve got.”

Julia’s expression is grim but determined. “We’ve finalized the first batch of improvements—things Lori flagged as high priority: new microwaves and fridges, better chairs in the nurse stations, fresh paint for a few battered walls. It’s small, but staff morale might lift a notch once they see actual changes.” She flicks to another slide, which details community outreach. “We’re also looking at a pilot program: sending mobile health clinics to underserved neighborhoods. Could simultaneously do good and help our public image.”

A pang of bittersweet memory hits me. “That’s… that’s what Nyla and I always wanted. A more charitable face for the hospital,” I say softly, picturing Nyla’s earnest eyes whenever we talked about expansions for free clinics. A swirl of sadness churns inside me. She’s locked up now, for a crime she’d never commit, while the hospital we once dreamed of shaping evolves without her.

Julia nods, her expression gentling. “I remember. It was your baby—well, you and Nyla’s. But I want to see it through.” She flips to a budget tab, pointing out cost breakdowns. “Donors are still pulling out, but we have enough left for a limited outreach rollout. If we manage it right, we might lure some philanthropic investors back.”

My phone buzzes on the table, a text pinging. I glance at the screen: a message from Lori that reads, “Marcus is on a live interview. You need to watch this.” My heart lurches, a sick heaviness twisting in my gut.

Julia sees my alarm. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Marcus,” I say through clenched teeth. “He’s giving a live interview, apparently. Lori says I need to watch. God knows what he’s saying.” I grab the remote for the big screen.

Julia curses quietly. “Let’s see.” She closes out the slides, flipping over to a local news channel. Immediately, the station banner reads: Breaking News: Exclusive with Marcus Swan, On Why He Faked His Death. My rage surges, heart pounding at the man who’s likely orchestrating half our misery, and is definitely fueling the rumor mill that’s crucifying Nyla.

We watch in grim silence. The camera shows Marcus perched in a plush studio chair, wearing a tailored suit that radiates smug confidence. The text crawl beneath him says: “Marcus Swan: ‘I had to protect myself…from Nyla Thomas.’” That phrase alone has me breathing shallow, fists curling at my sides.

The anchor leans in, feigning sympathy. “So, Mr. Swan, you claim Ms. Thomas forced you to stage your death? Could you elaborate?”

Marcus gives a calculated sigh. “Yes, well, Ms. Thomas infiltrated the Stone family with an agenda. We have reason to believe she orchestrated William and Hilda Stone’s tragic demise. My sources indicated I was next. To ensure my safety, I had no choice but to vanish for a time.”

My jaw sets so tight it hurts. Beside me, Julia’s posture goes rigid, eyes flashing with fury. The anchor on screen nods as though Marcus is telling the gospel truth, prompting him further. He continues: “It pained me greatly, but I see now how cunning Ms. Thomas is, seducing Jacob Stone, plotting to gain control of the hospital. She’s proven willing to take drastic measures—murder—to accomplish her goals.”

Julia’s voice trembles. “This… lying snake.” She flicks to another channel. Same coverage, different camera angles, same interview. Everywhere, they’re focusing on Marcus’s bombshell statements, no doubt overshadowing facts that might exonerate Nyla.

I can’t watch another moment. I slam the remote down. “Enough,” I hiss. “He’s twisting the narrative, painting her as a killer. The trial’s soon, and the public will swallow his poison. The jury might see these interviews.”

Julia powers down the screen, fear and anger warring in her eyes. “Jacob, don’t do anything rash,” she warns, reading my expression. “Please. He wants you to react impulsively, maybe lash out in front of cameras. Then you look unhinged, confirming everything.”

But I’m already grabbing my coat. My heart roars with pent-up fury. “I won’t let him keep spouting this. I’ll find that studio, confront him. Force him to shut up.”

She steps in front of me, eyes pleading. “Confront him, how? By assaulting him on air? He’ll spin it, painting Nyla as a manipulator who turns you violent. This is exactly the meltdown he wants.”

My gut burns, but she’s not wrong. “I can’t just do nothing,” I snap, raw emotion fraying my composure.

“Then do something calculated,” she urges. “Put out a statement, a calm rebuttal. Don’t stomp into a live set fists swinging. You’ll sabotage Nyla’s defense. The board’s worried too—this meltdown hits the hospital’s credibility all over again.”

I rip away from her, eyes blazing. “I know, but…” My phone buzzes again. Another message. I glance down: “Marcus is defaming her like crazy, watch out.” from Lori. My vision edges with red. “I can’t stand by, Julia. I need to at least appear at that station, talk to him directly.”

She tries to protest, but I storm out of the suite, ignoring her calls. Staffers in the hall watch me pass, startled, but I barely see them. Rage courses through my veins. Marcus faked his death, overshadowed the entire investigation, and now he emerges as a supposed victim of Nyla’s so-called vendetta? Not on my watch.

I reach my car in the underground garage, practically throwing myself into the driver’s seat. My mind buzzes with alarm bells telling me not to do this, but my heart begs me to set the record straight. Julia’s texts flood my phone, unanswered. I’m on autopilot, heading downtown where these local studios usually operate. If I can corner Marcus off-camera, maybe I can make him back off or at least see my face down. A fantasy, maybe, but fury blinds me to reason.

Traffic is a blur of horns and brake lights, my tension mounting. The interview’s likely finishing up, but maybe I can catch him leaving the station. I roll to a stop at a red light, knuckles white on the steering wheel. My phone pings—Julia again, or maybe Lori. Probably urging me to calm down. I ignore it, checking the directions on my dash screen. The channel’s address isn’t far.

Ten minutes later, I spot the station building: a squat, modern structure with tinted windows, a big channel logo posted out front. There’s a cluster of news vans, a few reporters milling about. I swerve into a side parking lot, kill the engine, adrenaline surging. My phone pings again, the ring jarring my nerves.

When I step out, I see a tall figure waiting near the station’s side entrance—Alexander, wearing a dark jacket, scanning the area with that composed posture he’s perfected. My heart leaps. Did Julia call him? She must have. She wants someone to keep me from doing something insane.

He moves toward me swiftly, face set. “Jacob, you can’t go in there,” he says, voice low but urgent.

My frustration spikes. “Alexander, I need to stop Marcus from spouting more lies. You saw that interview, right?”

He nods grimly. “Saw enough. Julia and Lori both texted me, said you were coming here, about to confront him. That’s a terrible idea, man.”

I narrow my eyes, anger flaring. “You don’t get it—he’s out there crucifying Nyla. She’s already battered, stuck in prison, now pregnant—” I pause, heart kicking. I just blurted it again, the same slip as earlier.

Alexander’s eyes widen in alarm. “Pregnant? Nyla’s pregnant?” He stares, shock evident. “You didn’t say anything. Julia doesn’t know?”

I rake a hand through my hair, guilt tangling with fury. “I found out barely hours ago. Only told you. She got a blood test after that riot. It’s real. She’s terrified, and so am I.” My voice cracks. “I can’t let Marcus use that child as ammunition or exploit it in the media.”

Alexander’s face tightens with sympathy and anger. “Jacob, I’m sorry. That’s massive. No wonder you’re losing it. But going in there now to confront him on camera will do more harm than good. Marcus wants you to lash out, or he wants a scene to spin.”

I clench my fists, staring at the station’s back exit. A wave of powerlessness washes over me. “So I’m supposed to just watch him blacken Nyla’s name? She’s pregnant with my child, locked up, while he parades around telling the world she’s a murderer.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “We’ll fight him, but not like this. You storm in, and you hand him the perfect meltdown narrative. The prosecution will twist it in court, portray you as reckless. And if Marcus finds out about the baby, it’ll be an even bigger fiasco.”

Trembling with rage, I exhale roughly. “I hate that he’s free to do this. Hiding behind cameras, telling stories of how Nyla threatened him, forced him to fake his death. It’s all bull—”

“I know,” Alexander cuts in. “But you can’t stop him by brute force. That’s what he wants. You need to keep your head, for Nyla’s sake. For the baby’s sake. Let’s call her lawyer, craft a statement. Or get a calm interview refuting his claims. That’s better than a brawl.”

The mention of the baby pierces me, deflating some fury into sorrow. I slump against the side of the building. “God, you’re right. I just… feel so helpless. She’s pregnant, man. And in there, Marcus is painting her as some savage killer.”

Alexander rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We’ll fix this. First, you have to keep your cool.” He glances around, noticing some curious onlookers. “Let’s get out of sight. I have my car around the corner.”

I blow out a shaky breath. “I came in mine, but I’ll follow you. Or… we can talk somewhere.”

He nods. “Yes. Let’s get you away from here. That’s priority. Then we figure out how to keep Nyla safe inside. Marcus can’t find out about the pregnancy—he’d weaponize it. And I have a plan to help protect her, but we can’t discuss it in the open.”

My head snaps up. “A plan? To shield Nyla from more attacks in prison?”

He nods seriously. “Something along those lines. Let’s drive to a safer spot, no cameras, no eavesdroppers. I’ll fill you in on the basics.”

My pulse quickens, half relief, half anxiety. If he has a plan… I exhale. “All right. Let’s do that.”

We circle to the parking lot, my mind spinning with the day’s chaos: Marcus’s brazen interview, revelations of Nyla’s pregnancy, this unstoppable rage gnawing at me. Alexander leads me to his sleek sedan, parked discreetly behind a news van. He gestures for me to hop in.

I cast one last glare at the studio building. Even from here, I sense the toxic energy of reporters inside, finishing up the broadcast with Marcus’s vile spin on events. My hands itch to tear that smug grin off his face. But Alexander is right: fighting him physically, on or off air, is a trap.

I climb into the passenger seat, my heart still pounding. Alexander slides into the driver’s side, starts the engine, and smoothly pulls away. The day outside is bright, the city bustling, but my mood is dark. Nyla is pregnant, battered, slandered, awaiting a murder trial. Marcus free, giving interviews. It’s a twisted reality.

After a few blocks, Alexander merges into traffic, silent for a moment. Then he speaks quietly, glancing at me. “How are you holding up, truly?”

I let out a ragged sigh. “Barely. I only discovered her pregnancy a few hours ago. I’m reeling. She’s terrified inside, especially after that riot. And now Marcus is out here fueling hate. I feel… powerless.”

He nods, sincerity in his gaze. “I get it. But trust me: this plan I have might help protect her from any inside threats. It won’t fix the trial or the meltdown, but it’s a start. I can’t explain yet, not here. But we’ll talk.”

A swirl of confusion and hope churns in my gut. I want to press him for details, but he’s obviously cautious about prying ears or watchers. “Okay,” I say softly, clinging to that promise of a lifeline for Nyla. “I appreciate it, Alexander. I do. Just… let me know as soon as we’re secure.”

He flicks on his turn signal, heading out of downtown. My mind roams: What kind of plan can he possibly have? Something involving his newly restructured family business? Allies on the inside? Money, muscle, blackmail? I can’t guess. But if it shields Nyla from further attacks and keeps the baby safe, I’ll accept almost anything.

We drive in tense silence, the hum of the engine the only sound. I glance out the window at the city moving on with life—people strolling, cars lined up at lights, the normal pulse of existence that feels so remote from my personal crisis. A stabbing wave of longing for normality hits me. We should be celebrating a pregnancy, not planning how to survive murder charges and sabotage.

At the next light, Alexander stops, leaning back in his seat. “We’ll need to coordinate with Lori and your sister eventually,” he murmurs. “But if you’re not ready to tell them about the baby, that’s your call. Just be aware time is short. The trial’s looming, and security inside the prison might shift quickly.”

I rub my temple. “I know. I’ll tell them soon. Let me gather my thoughts. Julia’s under so much strain. And if the press hears… I can’t risk Marcus using it.”

He only nods, expression grave. Then the light changes, and he steps on the gas. Outside, the city’s skyline rolls past, each block taking us farther from the scene of my near-confrontation. My phone buzzes again—I see multiple missed calls from Julia, a text from Lori that says: “You calm now? Good. Don’t do anything insane.” I show it to Alexander, who snorts softly. “I guess the cavalry mobilized to stop you,” he says.

“Lucky me,” I reply, voice thick with irony. Then I stare out the window, the tension from earlier still thrumming under my skin. I can’t shake the image of Marcus’s smug face on that broadcast, telling the world he faked his death because my fiancée tried to kill him. Rubbish. But the public loves a salacious story. They’ll eat it up.

Alexander glances at me. “You’re thinking about him?”

I grimace. “Hard not to. He’s slandering everything. William and Hilda’s real killers are walking free while he points at Nyla. Meanwhile, I just learned I’m going to be a father.” My chest tightens again. “I’d do anything to keep them safe, but I’m stuck watching the world spin out of control.”

He slows to make a turn. “Then let me help. We’ll keep Nyla from more harm inside. The rest—like Marcus’s public smear—requires a different approach. But first things first.”

I nod, heart thumping. “Alright. I trust you.” I cling to that trust, the same loyalty that’s bound us as best friends for years. In a moment, we’ll be somewhere private, away from prying eyes, so he can detail how he plans to protect my pregnant fiancée behind prison bars. A swirl of apprehension and relief tangles in my gut. Whatever he’s got in mind, it’s better than me punching out Marcus on live TV.

The car merges onto a quieter road, traffic thinning, the bustle behind us receding. A hush envelopes the sedan, my thoughts flicking to Nyla. I picture her battered face, the way her eyes brimmed with tears when she revealed she was pregnant. I remember the desperation in her voice, the love that still resonates between us despite the tragedy. She’s counting on me. Counting on me not to blow it.

Alexander’s gaze stays forward, his knuckles tight on the wheel. At last, he speaks, voice measured and low. “We’re almost there. Once we’re secure, I’ll tell you the plan.”

My breath catches. I want to press him for details, but I sense the conversation ends here. Something in his tense posture warns me he’s not about to risk anyone overhearing. So I swallow the questions, letting the tension coil. If this plan can truly safeguard Nyla inside the prison, then I’ll wait.

We pass a final intersection, heading into a side street lined with tall trees. The sunlight filters through, casting shifting patterns on the car seats. I rest my head back, exhaling slowly, adrenaline draining. No matter how wild or risky Alexander’s idea is, I need it. Nyla needs it. Because Marcus just declared open war, and we have so little time before the trial.

In the hush, I close my eyes briefly. My phone’s texts remain unanswered. I’ll deal with them soon enough. For now, my mind drifts to the precious life growing in Nyla’s womb—innocent of all this madness. Hang on, love. Hang on.