Chapter 3 - NICU and the Wolf’s Tears
The emergency trauma bay at St. Matthew’s was a blur of fluorescent lights, shouting surgeons, and cutting shears.
"Second- and third-degree thermal burns covering thirty-two percent of her body surface area," the burn trauma specialist announced. "Right cheek, neck, clavicle, and right torso."
"Fetal monitoring shows severe decelerations," the OB-GYN surgeon called out, pressing the ultrasound wand against my abdomen. "The baby is in acute distress from trauma-induced shock. We have to perform an emergency emergency Caesarean section right now."
Within twelve minutes, under general anesthesia and emergency surgical protocol, my daughter was brought into the world.
She was born six weeks premature, weighing just three pounds and fourteen ounces. She didn't let out a loud cry; her tiny lungs struggled against the cold hospital air. She was immediately intubated, placed in an incubator, and rushed to the Level IV Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).
When I woke up thirty-six hours later in the specialized burn intensive care wing, my body was cocooned in thick silver-sulfadiazine dressings. The pain was excruciating, every breath feeling like raw fire across my ribs.
Julian was sitting in the armchair beside my bed. The moment he saw my left eye open, he grabbed my bandaged hand, leaning close to my ear while the monitoring nurse was adjusting an IV drip behind him.
"You poor, clumsy girl," Julian whispered loudly for the nurse’s benefit, his voice dripping with theatrical sorrow. Then his lips moved closer to my ear, his voice dropping into a venomous, threatening hiss: "Remember what you told the doctors, Elena. You slipped. If you say anything else, you will never see that premature brat leave the hospital alive."
I did not flinch. I did not scream. My father had always told me: Panic destroys evidence, but patience preserves justice.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to slip back into unconsciousness until Julian left the room to speak to the hospital social worker about insurance payouts.
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The moment the door clicked shut, I signaled the attending charge nurse, Nurse Miriam.
"Nurse Miriam," I whispered through cracked, dry lips. "Please... call Sarah Vance. She is my father's estate attorney. Tell her to come with a private notary immediately. And do not let Julian Vance near my daughter's nursery records."
