Chapter 2 - The Neonatal WarThe red emergency lights of the Whitmore medical transport van flashed against the wet pavement of Fifth Avenue as we sped through the rainy Manhattan traffic under police escort.
Inside the back cabin, Adrian held my hand so tightly that my fingers went numb. He refused to let the paramedics move him aside, his massive frame towering over the gurney, his face pale and slick with cold sweat.
"Heart rate is dropping! The fetus is in acute distress!" the chief paramedic called out, monitoring the portable ultrasound screen. "She's in pre-term precipitous labor. We need to prepare for an emergency C-section the moment we hit the bay!"
"Adrian..." I whimpered, my strength draining fast as blood mixed with the amniotic fluid beneath me. "If something happens... save the baby... please, save our son..."
"Nothing is going to happen to either of you!" Adrian spat, his voice breaking with rare, unvarnished emotion. He leaned down, his forehead pressing against mine, his dark hair falling wildly over his brows. "You hear me, Lena? You survived eight months without me, but you are not leaving me today. Fight, damn it!"
The ambulance slammed to a halt outside Saint Jude's Private Hospital.
The double doors flew open, and a team of ten doctors and neonatal specialists led by Dr. Harrison swarmed the vehicle.
"Get her to OR Three! Now!" Dr. Harrison ordered, rushing alongside the rolling gurney.
Adrian walked beside us, refusing to break his grip on my hand until we reached the double doors of the surgical suite.
"Sir, you cannot enter the sterile field!" a nurse yelled, placing her hands against Adrian's chest to block him.
"Get out of my way!" Adrian snarled, his blue eyes flashing with a lethal, dangerous intensity.
"Adrian, stop!" Dr. Harrison shouted, turning around. "If you want me to save your wife and your child, let us do our job! Sit down and let us work!"
Adrian stopped. His hand slipped from mine as the heavy stainless-steel doors swung shut, cutting me off from his sight.
The surgical lights above glared down like artificial suns. An oxygen mask was pressed over my mouth.
"Administer the general anesthetic," Dr. Harrison said calmly. "We have less than three minutes to deliver this child."
May you like
As the cold chemical crept through my bloodstream, the last image in my mind wasn't the scary surgical instruments or the sterile blue drapes.
It was Adrian Whitmore—the man who ruled Manhattan with an iron fist—standing outside those doors, tears streaming down his face, completely broken.
Related Stories
