The Legitimate Heir

"Stay with me, man!" The stranger grips the wheel with both hands, eyes jumping to the mirror. "Don't you close your eyes!" Blood drips from Alexander's forehead into his lashes. It soaks his white shirt, the leather seat, the jacket pressed against his side. "Cold," Alexander whispers. "Why is it so cold?" "Because you wrapped your car around a pole. Just breathe." "Mum," Alexander mumbles. "Don't tell Dad... I only had a few drinks." The stranger's jaw tightens. "Save it for the doctors, kid." Headlights s***h across the dashboard. The stranger takes the corner too fast and the tires scream. A red sign glows ahead: St. Mary's Hospital. He slams the brakes at the emergency entrance and is out before the car stops rocking. "Help! Somebody help me!" Two nurses run out with a stretcher. A tall male nurse yanks the back door open and swears. "Male, twenties, head wound, heavy blood loss. Move, move!" They drag Alexander out. His arm hangs loose, fingers trailing through the blood. The wheels rattle across the floor as they race him inside. The stranger runs after them, his hands red to the wrists. Inside, the lights are too bright. Someone shouts, "Trauma room two, now!" A nurse with a clipboard blocks his path. Her name tag says Lucy. "Sir, are you family?" "No. I don't know him." He is gasping. "His car was on its side. Smoke everywhere. I pulled him out before it..." He swallows. "I just brought him here." "Name? Age? Allergies?" "I told you, I don't know anything about him." Lucy stares at him for one second before walking away. The stranger stands alone in the hallway. He looks down at his hands. Blood has dried in the lines of his palms, dark and sticky. A nurse hands him a towel. "Sir, sit down. Please. You're shaking." He drops onto a plastic chair, eyes fixed on the double doors. "You did a good thing," she says softly. "Did I?" He laughs, but it breaks in the middle. "I don't even know if he's going to make it." Behind the curtain, the machines scream. A monitor beeps too fast. "Pressure's dropping!" "Get two lines in. Now!" "He's not responding." "Check his pockets. We need an ID." Hands dig into his jeans. A phone, cracked down the middle, comes out. "Unlock it." The nurse swipes the screen. A box asks for a passcode. She types a few numbers. The phone shakes its screen at her. "Locked." "Try his thumb." She presses Alexander's limp thumb to the glass. Wrong. Again. Wrong. "It's not working!" "Forget it. Cut the shirt. We need to see his chest." Scissors snap through the bloody fabric. A nurse peels the jacket off his shoulder and something drops to the floor. A black card holder. Grace picks it up. Her eyes drop to the name. She reads it twice. Then she looks up, pale. "Alexander Wellington." The room goes quiet for half a second. "Wellington?" the male nurse says. "Like Wellington Group?" "Look at his watch and shoes." Another nurse points. "Those aren't cheap." "Find his parents. Now." Lucy's thumbs fly over her phone. *Wellington Group. Raymond Wellington.* A photo fills the screen: a tall man in a dark suit, a woman in pearls beside him, smiling like she owns the world. "Got them," she mutters. "There's a number on their page." She steps into the hall, hands shaking, and dials. In the trauma room, a doctor presses gauze to Alexander's head. Blood soaks through. "Come on, kid," he mutters. "Stay with us." The monitor beeps faster. Alexander's eyelids flutter. His lips move. "Dad," he breathes. "Dad..." Nobody hears him. Somewhere across the city, a phone vibrates on a marble nightstand. Raymond Wellington groans and turns over. Blue light spills across the ceiling as the screen comes alive. He narrows his eyes at the time: 12:47 a.m. "Who calls this late?" Catherine shifts beside him. Ignore it." "I will." He sets the phone facedown. The buzzing ends, and the house settles back into silence. Rain ticks against the tall windows. Then the phone rings again. "Raymond." Catherine's voice is thick from sleep. "Two calls in a row isn't an accident. Pick up." "It's probably Tokyo. Those people don't sleep." "Tokyo would call your office line." She sits up and brushes her hair away from her face. "Something might be wrong." He sighs, then grabs the phone. Unknown number. "If this is a sales call, somebody's losing their job," he mutters. He answers. "Raymond Wellington." "Mr. Wellington? I'm so sorry to call this late. My name is Lucy. I'm a nurse at St. Mary's Hospital." His thumb freezes. "Hospital?" Catherine's hand clamps around his arm. "What hospital? What is it?" He waves her quiet. "Go on." "Sir, do you have a son named Alexander Wellington?" The room tilts. Raymond sits up so fast the sheets slide off his chest. His heart pounds so hard he can hear it. "Yes. Alexander is my son. What happened?" "There's been an accident. A man brought him in about twenty minutes ago..." "An accident?" Catherine is already out of bed, bare feet on the cold floor. "Raymond, put it on speaker." He presses the button with a shaking finger. "...his car, we think. He has a serious head wound, and he has lost a lot of blood." Silence. Catherine's hand flies to her mouth. The only sound is the rain against the window. "No." The word barely leaves her. "No. He said he would be home by eleven. He promised me." "Ma'am, I'm very sorry..." "Is he alive?" Raymond's voice cracks, a sound no boardroom has ever heard. "Tell me he's alive." A pause. Too long. "He's alive, sir. For now." "For now?" Catherine's voice rises. "What does that mean, for now?" "The doctors are doing everything they can. But he is in critical condition, and he is still losing blood." Lucy's voice drops. "He will need a transfusion. Please come quickly." Raymond is already on his feet, dragging a coat off the chair. His hands shake so hard he misses the sleeve twice. "Keep him alive," he says. "Do you hear me? Whatever he needs, you give it to him. Whatever it costs." "Sir, it's not about money. It's about time." Catherine throws a coat over her nightgown and snatches the car keys from the dresser, tears running down her face. Her perfect calm is gone. "Raymond, if he dies..." "He won't." "If he dies, I will not..." "Catherine." He catches her shoulders. His eyes are red. "I said he won't." They run down the stairs together, their footsteps echoing through the great hall. No time to call the driver. At the front door, Raymond lifts the phone one last time. "We're coming. Do you hear me? We're coming." No answer. Only a dial tone. The black car tears through the gates, the engine roaring into the night. Raymond runs a red light not caring what would happen. Catherine's phone lights up with a photo of Alexander laughing at some party. She stares at it, and her whole face crumbles. "Faster, Raymond." "I'm going as fast as I can." "Then go faster!" Streetlights blur past. His knuckles turn white on the wheel. "What if we're too late?" Catherine whispers. Raymond looks at her for a b rief second and faces the road, not giving her an answer. Across the city, in trauma room two, a monitor starts to scream. A long, flat, endless scream. "Doctor!" a nurse shouts. "We're losing him!"