Chapter 2 - The Chamber of EchoesDr. Aris Vance—the chief of pediatric cardiology at Chicago Children's—stepped out of the examination room forty minutes later, holding a thick digital chart.
I sat on the wooden bench across from Grace, holding three-year-old Leo on my lap. The little boy had refused to sit alone, and when I had hesitantly held out my broad hand, he had crawled into my chest, resting his warm, soft forehead against my neck. Holding my son for the first time in three years felt like having my heart carved out and placed back into my chest, raw and bleeding.
"Mrs. Mitchell," Dr. Vance spoke gently, looking up from his tablet before his eyes flicked to me in surprise. "And... Mr. Mitchell?"
"I am her husband... I am her father," I corrected instantly, standing up with Leo in my arms, my gray-blue eyes locking onto the doctor's face with a desperate, razor-sharp intensity. "Tell us what's wrong with our daughter."
Dr. Vance gestured for us to step into his private office, closing the heavy door behind us. Maya held Grace's hand, while Sophie rested quietly on the leather sofa inside, her breathing shallow and raspy.
"Sophie has a severe congenital defect known as Tetralogy of Fallot with pulmonary atresia," Dr. Vance explained cleanly, tapping the screen to display a three-dimensional model of a child's heart. "Her pulmonary valve is completely closed, and the blood flow to her lungs is relying almost entirely on a temporary collateral artery that is beginning to narrow rapidly."
Grace covered her mouth with her trembling hand, letting out a quiet, heartbreaking whimpering sound.
"How serious is it, Doctor?" I demanded, my deep baritone dropping into a low, lethal register that masked the sheer panic tearing my soul apart.
"Without an immediate open-heart reconstruction and a specialized arterial valve patch," Dr. Vance delivered the blow with surgical precision, "she has less than four weeks before the collateral artery occludes completely. And when that happens... heart failure is absolute."
The air left my lungs completely. The room spun.
"Then schedule the surgery for tomorrow morning!" I shouted, taking a step toward his desk. "I don't care what it costs! I will write a check right now for two million dollars! Fly in the best surgeons from Johns Hopkins, from Boston, from London!"
Dr. Vance sighed heavily, looking down at his desk. "It isn't a question of money for the surgical team, Mr. Mitchell. Chicago Children's has the top pediatric cardiovascular surgeons in the country. The problem is the specialized donor valve graft. Because of Sophie's rare tissue type, standard synthetic patches carry an eighty-percent rejection rate. We have been on the UNOS emergency donor registry for six months."
Six months.
While I was flying first class to Paris with Amelia Brooks, buying designer gowns and attending champagne galas, my ex-wife had spent six months sitting in sterile waiting rooms, watching our daughter's heart slowly give out, wondering if she would survive to see her fourth birthday.
"What about a direct family living donor patch?" I asked, my voice shaking violently. "A partial pericardial or vascular harvest from a biological parent?"
Dr. Vance blinked, looking up in surprise. "A direct living autologous harvest from a parent is extremely rare and carries high risk for the donor, Mr. Mitchell. It requires an exact HLA genetic match and perfect arterial diameter compatibility."
"Test me," I commanded, pulling off my tailored coat and rolling up the sleeve of my dress shirt. "Test me right now."
"Ryan, no!" Grace gasped, grabbing my arm. "You don't know what you're saying! You have a multi-billion-dollar corporation to run! Your father—"
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I turned to Grace, taking her pale, trembling face into my broad, warm hands, looking straight into her tear-filled hazel eyes with a fierceness she had never seen in me before.
"Damn the corporation, Grace," I wept softly into her dark hair. "Damn my father. Damn the money. I let you fight for three years alone. I am not letting our daughter die."
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