Chapter 3 - The Emergency Wing
The trauma bay at St. Jude’s Memorial was an explosion of shouting doctors, sterile blue drapes, and stainless steel instruments.
"Category Three fetal deceleration," the chief obstetrician barked as they wheeled me into Operating Room 4. "Placental detachment confirmed via ultrasound. We have four minutes before irreversible hypoxic brain injury. Prep for an immediate general-anesthesia classical Caesarean!"
The cold mask was pressed over my nose and mouth. The last sensation I felt before darkness claimed me was the prick of the scalpel against my skin.
When I opened my eyes twelve hours later, the room was quiet. Sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds, casting soft geometric shadows across the white linoleum floor. An IV line hummed softly beside my bed, and a thick surgical binder held my stitched abdomen in place.
Sitting in the vinyl armchair beside my bed was Claire, holding a thermos of hot tea and an overnight bag.
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw and dry from the intubation tube.
"Claire..." I rasped, my heart hammering in terror. "My baby... is she..."
Claire set her tea down immediately, moving to the edge of the bed and gently grasping my hand. Her eyes were rimmed with tears, but a radiant, tearful smile broke across her face.
"She's alive, Maya," Claire whispered, squeezing my fingers. "She was born at four pounds, two ounces. She’s in the neonatal intensive care unit on oxygen, but the pediatric team says she’s a fighter. Her vitals stabilized two hours ago."
A sob of overwhelming gratitude broke through my chest. I buried my face in the hospital pillow, weeping until my surgical stitches ached.
"Where is Lucas?" I asked, my voice tightening with fear.
Claire’s expression hardened into cold steel. "He’s sitting in a county holding cell on five hundred thousand dollars cash bail. But his mother, Evelyn, has already hired the most ruthless defense firm in the state. They’re trying to claim the audio recording was illegally obtained and out of context."
"It's not out of context," a deep voice sounded from the doorway.
May you like
We turned to see Marcus Reed, my father’s former business partner and a seasoned corporate litigator, standing in the room holding a thick leather briefcase.
"Maya," Marcus said, stepping forward with grave determination. "Your father spent thirty years protecting working families from predators. We are going to ensure Lucas Vance never walks freely in this state again."
