My Son Is In The Icu After A Horrific Accident. I Just Found His Wife’s “mental Health Day” Photo On A Yacht With His Partner. How Do I Destroy Them?

The ICU Command

I didn’t knock. I grabbed the handle of the hospital room door and pushed it open hard enough that it bounced off the rubber stopper.

My son Daniel was lying there, tubes running into both arms, his face pale against the white pillow. He was alone.

The nurse at the station had tried to stop me, saying something about visiting hours and ICU protocols, but I’d walked past her like she wasn’t there. Twenty-eight years as a federal prosecutor teaches you how to command a room.

And right now, I wasn’t asking permission from anyone. Daniel’s eyes opened slowly.

He looked at me and tried to smile, but I could see the pain medication made everything sluggish. His lips were cracked.

“Dad,” he whispered.

“You didn’t have to fly out. Mom said she’d keep you updated.”

I pulled the visitor chair close to his bed and sat down, my hands shaking with something between relief and rage. I’d gotten the call six hours ago while I was in a deposition in Boston.

Daniel had been in a head-on collision on Route 1 in Miami. Spinal injuries, possible paralysis.

Surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning. I’d left my briefcase in the conference room and driven straight to Logan Airport.

“Where’s Lauren?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

Daniel’s eyes drifted to the window.

“She had to handle something with the restaurant. You know how busy the season is. She’ll be back tonight.”

The restaurant, the one I’d helped them buy two years ago with a $300,000 loan that Lauren swore they’d pay back within five years. The one that was supposed to be their dream.

A Sunset Celebration on the Bay

I stood up and walked to the window. From the fourth floor of Jackson Memorial, I could see Biscayne Bay in the distance.

The sun was setting, painting everything orange and pink.

“What time did she leave?” I asked.

“Around 2:00,” Daniel said.

“She was here all morning. She just needed to check on the dinner service. She promised she’d be back by 8:00.”

I looked at my watch. It was 7:30 now.

I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram. I’d made Daniel teach me how to use it last Christmas when he’d complained I was digitally invisible to his generation.

I typed Lauren’s handle into the search bar. Her profile loaded.

The most recent post was from 45 minutes ago. The photo showed Lauren in a white bikini on the deck of a yacht.

Her blonde hair was wet, pushed back from her face. She was holding a champagne glass and laughing.

The sunset behind her was the same one I could see through the hospital window. The caption read, “Finally taking that mental health day I’ve been needing.”

I felt my jaw clench so tight I thought my teeth might crack. Below the photo, I scrolled through the comments.

Most were friends telling her she deserved it, telling her she looked amazing. But one comment made my blood stop cold.

It was from Marcus Rivera, Daniel’s business partner, the man who managed the restaurant’s finances while Daniel handled the kitchen. Marcus had commented, “Best decision we ever made.”

I clicked on Marcus’ profile. His most recent post was from 30 minutes ago.

It was a video. I pressed play.

The sound of waves and laughter filled my phone’s speaker. The camera panned across the deck of a yacht, showing a catered spread of lobster and champagne.

Then it swung around to show Marcus shirtless, his arm around Lauren. They were both laughing.

Behind them, I could see the Miami skyline.

“To new beginnings,” Marcus said in the video, raising a glass.

Lauren kissed him on the cheek. The video ended.

I stood there at the window, my hand gripping the phone so hard I thought the screen might shatter. Behind me, Daniel’s monitor beeped steadily.

My son, who might never walk again, who was facing surgery that could determine the rest of his life, was lying in this hospital room alone while his wife and his business partner were seven miles away on a yacht celebrating. I turned back to look at Daniel.

He’d fallen asleep again, his breathing shallow. There was a clipboard at the end of his bed with forms that needed signing.

I walked over and read through them. Consent for surgery. Emergency contact information. Insurance verification.

Under spouse emergency contact, Lauren’s name was listed, but she hadn’t signed anything. Next to her signature line, someone had written in pen, “Unable to locate spouse. Attempting to reach.”

The DNR and the Insurance Question

I pulled out my phone again and called the number I’d memorized 20 years ago. It rang twice.

“Sterling,” the voice on the other end said.

“Thought you’d retired.”

“Marcus,” I said.

“I need a favor.”

“The investigator or the lawyer?” he asked.

“Both,” I replied.

There was a pause.

“Must be serious,” he said.

“I need everything you can find on Lauren Sterling and Marcus Rivera. Bank records, phone records, business filings, everything. I need it by tomorrow morning.”