My Boss Tried To Bury My Pregnant Wife Alive To Steal My Corporate Empire
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the sterile corridor. The “funeral home” wasn’t a funeral home at all. It was an OmniHealth facility, disguised as a luxury wellness retreat.
My badge, still active for high-level access, had gotten me through the main entrance. I’d walked past “rejuvenation suites” and “detox lounges” that felt like a mockery.
My combat medic training kicked in. I ignored the opulent signs and followed the quietest wing, the one where the air tasted vaguely of antiseptics and fear. My hand instinctively found the cool metal of the watch on my wrist. It was still recording.
A nurse, too calm for the situation, was leaving a room. She didn’t even glance my way. I slipped inside.
Naomi.
She lay in a bed that looked more like a hospital cot than a spa bed. Monitors beeped softly around her, a stark contrast to the elegant room decor. Her skin was pale, a thin IV line disappearing into her arm.
I moved to her side, my breath catching in my throat. Her belly, once so beautifully round with our child, seemed… strained. A subtle tremor ran through her body.
“Naomi,” I whispered, reaching for her hand. It felt clammy.
Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. The drugs still held her captive. My gaze flickered to the monitor beside her bed. It wasn’t just tracking vital signs. It was charting uterine contractions.
Slow, rhythmic peaks.
A cold dread seeped into my bones, worse than any battlefield horror I’d witnessed. This wasn’t rest. This was something else entirely.
I scanned the room, my eyes locking onto a digital chart near the foot of her bed. “Accelerated Wellness Program: Expedited Gravid Induction.” The words screamed at me in black and white.
Premature labor. They were inducing her.
Before I could fully process it, the door opened again. A woman in crisp white scrubs, a stethoscope around her neck, stepped in. Dr. Lena Hanson, according to her badge. I recognized her from some OmniHealth internal memos. She looked utterly surprised to see me.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice calm, professional, but with a flicker of alarm in her eyes. “This is a restricted area.”
I turned, forcing myself to project authority, something I knew well from my military days. “I’m Daniel Akintola. This is my wife, Naomi Akintola.”
My voice was a low growl. “What in God’s name is going on here, Doctor? Why are you inducing her labor?”
Dr. Hanson stiffened. She gestured toward the door. “Mr. Akintola, I understand you’re distressed, but you need to leave. This is a private facility, and Mrs. Akintola is under specific care orders.”
“Care orders?” I scoffed, stepping closer to the monitor, pointing at the contraction peaks. “This isn’t care. This is forced labor. She’s nine months pregnant, not a day less. Why are you risking her and our baby’s lives?”
She hesitated, her gaze darting to Naomi, then back to me. “These are standard protocols for a difficult pregnancy, Mr. Akintola. Accelerated wellness. We’re simply alleviating discomfort and ensuring a timely, managed delivery.”
“Managed delivery?” My voice cracked with disbelief. “You’re telling me you’re inducing my wife without my consent, under the guise of ‘wellness’? What ‘difficult pregnancy’? Naomi’s pregnancy was textbook until a few days ago.”
“The orders came through a corporate medical protocol,” Dr. Hanson insisted, her composure wavering slightly. “Approved by senior management. It’s a specialized program for high-profile clients with complex needs.”
“Senior management?” I echoed, the name Reggie Monroe screaming in my head. “What complex needs? The only complex need here is keeping her drugged and isolated.”
“She experienced a sudden, severe onset of preeclampsia,” Dr. Hanson said quickly, almost too quickly. “It was deemed medically necessary to initiate labor to protect both mother and child.”
Preeclampsia. My mind raced. Naomi, an obstetrician herself, would have recognized the signs immediately. She would have called me, insisted on a hospital. She wouldn’t have just… ended up here.
“Show me the charts. Show me the diagnosis. Show me *her* consent,” I demanded, stepping between her and the door. “Because I promise you, Doctor, if one hair on my wife’s head, or our baby’s, is harmed, you will regret this day.”
Her face went pale. “I am simply following orders, Mr. Akintola. It’s all on the digital files. Everything is by the book.”
“Whose book?” I pressed. “Reggie Monroe’s book?”
Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine fear now visible. She tried to move past me. “I need to alert security.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, blocking her path. “You’re going to tell me everything. Now. Who authorized this ‘protocol’? What is the real reason you’re trying to deliver my baby weeks early?”
She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the floor. “The… the baby is considered an asset, Mr. Akintola.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. An asset. My child. My unborn child.
“What do you mean, an asset?” I demanded, my hands clenching into fists. The rage, cold and potent, began to burn in my chest.
“I… I don’t have all the details,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “Just that the… the future of OmniHealth’s medical tech patents, yours specifically, relies on… ensuring the baby’s safe arrival and… stability.”
A legacy clause. I remembered vague discussions about it, a provision ensuring my groundbreaking medical tech remained within the OmniHealth family, somehow tied to future generations. But this? This was monstrous.
“And Naomi?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “What about Naomi? What happens to her once you have your ‘asset’?”
Dr. Hanson looked away, her silence a chilling answer. They didn’t care about Naomi. They cared about the baby, a pawn in Reggie’s corporate chess game.
“You’re going to help me get her out of here,” I stated, not a question.
She shook her head frantically. “I can’t. They’ll ruin me. They’ll disbar me. You don’t understand Reggie Monroe’s power.”
“I understand that you’re an accessory to what amounts to kidnapping and assault,” I retorted, glancing at Naomi, then back at the doctor. “And I guarantee you, Reggie Monroe’s wrath will be nothing compared to mine.”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor grew louder, echoing. Someone was coming. I had to make a move, and fast.
“Alright,” I said, my mind racing, “I need to know everything. The schedule of her drugs. The exact timeline for this ‘induction.’ Everything.”
She looked terrified, but the approaching footsteps galvanized her. She seemed to make a snap decision. “There’s a backup terminal in the utility closet down the hall,” she whispered, her voice urgent. “Room 307. It mirrors the main systems. I can… I can get you access.”
“Why?” I asked, suspicion lacing my tone.
“Because I have a conscience, Mr. Akintola,” she replied, her eyes flashing with a flicker of defiance. “And I don’t believe in what’s happening here. Not really. I just… I got pulled in.”
The footsteps stopped right outside the door. A deep voice called out, “Dr. Hanson? Everything alright in there?”
Dr. Hanson instantly plastered a calm, professional smile on her face. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Thorne! Just checking on Mrs. Akintola.”
Thorne? As in, Elara Thorne? Reggie’s ex-partner? No, this was a different Thorne. Maybe a relative of Julian Vance, the lawyer who notarized the forged POA? My mind was a blur of connections and unknowns.
“Good. Reggie wants an update on the ‘program’ within the hour.” The voice was cold, dismissive.
Dr. Hanson nodded, her eyes wide with fear as she looked at me. I ducked behind the curtain separating Naomi’s bed from the wall, pressing myself against the cool surface. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure they could hear it.
“Of course,” Dr. Hanson said, her voice strained. “I’ll prepare the report now.”
The door opened fully, and a burly man in a corporate security uniform stepped into the room. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the curtain, but I stayed absolutely still, barely breathing. He grunted, seemingly satisfied.
“Just make sure everything stays on schedule,” he ordered. “No disruptions. Especially with that Akintola fella causing trouble.”
He exited, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Dr. Hanson let out a shaky breath. She turned to me, her face pale.
“He’s security chief,” she whispered. “He reports directly to Reggie.”
“The utility closet,” I urged her, stepping out from behind the curtain. “Now.”
She nodded, grabbing a tablet from a nearby cart. “I’ll create a temporary login. It’ll only last an hour before it’s flagged, but it’s enough to download the raw data on Naomi’s treatment, the orders, everything.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Doctor,” I told her, a new sense of grim purpose settling over me. This wasn’t just about rescuing Naomi anymore. This was about exposing a rot that went deeper than I could have imagined. This was about Reggie Monroe trying to steal my family, my future, and using my own child as collateral. The watch on my wrist silently recorded every word, every beep, every chilling detail of the “Accelerated Wellness Program.” I had to hurry. I had to save them both.
I watched her for a moment, sensing her genuine terror but also a flicker of resolve. She was in too deep, but maybe, just maybe, she could be turned.
“Go,” I told her, my voice low. “I’ll distract if anyone comes back.”
She hesitated, then slipped out, leaving me alone with Naomi and the relentless beeping of the monitors. I leaned over my wife, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“I’m here, baby,” I whispered. “I’m here. And I’m not leaving without you both.”
I knew what I had to do. The plan was half-formed, desperate, but it was all I had. I needed that data. It was the only way to prove this wasn’t some medical emergency. This was a hostile corporate takeover of my family.
The rhythmic contractions continued, a cruel reminder of the ticking clock. My child was being forced into the world too early, a pawn in a game I was only just beginning to understand. I watched Naomi’s chest rise and fall, felt the slight tremor in her body.
My hands clenched at my sides. Reggie Monroe. He wanted my patents, my shares. He was willing to sacrifice Naomi and our child to get them. The thought ignited a fire in my gut, a resolve that burned hotter than any fear. I would burn this facility to the ground if I had to.
I moved to the door, peering out through the crack. The corridor was empty. Dr. Hanson had made it to the utility closet. I could see the faint glow of a screen from under the door.
My eyes scanned the room again, looking for anything I could use, anything out of place. This wasn’t a hospital, it was a trap. Every detail, from the calming artwork to the plush rug, felt like part of the deception.
A small digital clock on the wall above Naomi’s bed counted down. Not minutes, but hours. The estimated delivery window. It showed “ETA: 12 hours.” Twelve hours. My heart seized. My baby could be born in twelve hours, prematurely, into this corporate nightmare.
I ran through scenarios in my head. If I tried to carry her out now, I’d trigger alarms, be overwhelmed by security. I needed proof. I needed leverage. And I needed to disconnect those machines, but without harming her or the baby.
A wave of nausea hit me, a phantom echo of my PTSD. The feeling of helplessness, of watching life ebb away despite my training, threatened to consume me. But this wasn’t Afghanistan. This was my family. And I was not helpless. Not anymore.
I took a deep breath, pushing the rising panic down. Focus. Observe. Plan. I was a Senior VP, a former combat medic. I knew how to strategize under pressure.
I looked at the IV bag. Saline solution, but what else? Was it truly just for “comfort” or were they administering stronger induction agents? I couldn’t risk disconnecting it blindly.
I had to trust Dr. Hanson, at least for now. She was my only source of information from inside this gilded cage. But I wouldn’t leave Naomi alone. Not for a second.
I kept my ears open for any sounds, my eyes on Naomi. The faint beeping of the monitors was the only constant, a chilling soundtrack to this horror. I felt the familiar weight of my watch. Every moment, every breath, was being recorded. It wasn’t just a record of evidence; it was a testament to my presence, my fight.
This wasn’t just about money or power for Reggie. It was about something far more twisted. It was about possession. My baby. My legacy. He was trying to steal my future, piece by agonizing piece.
My chest tightened, a familiar pressure of anger and desperation. I thought of the funeral, the closed coffin, the shock. It was all a carefully constructed lie. My mother and brother, pawns in Reggie’s game.
The thought of Marcus and Mom, unwitting participants in this horror, twisted my gut further. They believed they were protecting me, keeping me from my “grief.” They had no idea they were helping Reggie bury my wife alive.
I just needed that data. It was my only way to fight back against a man who commanded legions of lawyers and manipulated entire families. I glanced at the door to the utility closet. The light was still on. She was working.
I waited, every nerve alert. The silence in the room was punctuated only by the soft, steady hum of the machines and the shallow breaths of my wife. I focused on Naomi, on the small rise and fall of her belly. My child. I would not let him win.
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