Chapter 2 - The Neon Lights of St. Vincent’sThe interior of the black sedan smelled of expensive leather, cedarwood, and rain. The driver, a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit, navigated the flooded streets with aggressive precision, running red lights with emergency strobe lights flashing behind the front grille.
Julian Vance sat beside me on the leather bench, holding a crisp white towel against my forehead while his other hand remained firmly clamped over my ice-cold fingers.
"Hold on, Claire," Julian murmured, his voice steady despite the rapid muscle tick along his sharp jawline. "We're two minutes away from St. Vincent’s. The chief of obstetrics is already waiting at the bay."
I clutched his hand with white-knuckled force, gasping for air as another wave of agony ripped through my lower back. "My babies... it’s too early... twenty-eight weeks... they won't survive—"
"They will survive," Julian interrupted, his tone carrying an absolute, unshakeable certainty that felt like a lifeline in the middle of an ocean. "I have summoned the top neonatal trauma team in the tri-state area. You fight, Claire. Leave the rest to me."
My mind was spinning in a haze of agony and terror, but beneath the fear, a burning question persisted. "How do you... know who I am? Why are you helping me?"
Julian looked down at me, his gray eyes darkening with a profound, unreadable emotion. He opened his mouth to answer, but before the words could escape his lips, the car screeched to a halt beneath the bright red neon sign of the emergency trauma bay.
The doors flew open. A dozen medical professionals clad in surgical scrubs flooded the pavement, rolling a specialized trauma gurney alongside the car.
"Female, twenty-eight weeks gestation, spontaneous rupture of membranes, active labor with triplets!" a nurse shouted, checking my vitals as they transferred me from the back seat onto the gurney.
Julian never let go of my hand. He walked briskly alongside the rolling gurney, his tall frame cutting through the chaotic emergency room corridors like a warship through rough seas.
"Sir, you cannot come into the delivery suite!" a doctor yelled, trying to block the double doors.
Julian didn't even slow down. He pulled a black metal card from his coat pocket and pressed it into the doctor's chest. "I built this wing, Dr. Aris. If you spend another five seconds arguing with me instead of prepping her for a C-section, I will buy this hospital tomorrow morning and fire you by noon. Get her inside!"
The doors swung open. The harsh glare of surgical lights blinded me, the smell of antiseptic filled my lungs, and the steady, rhythmic beep of fetal heart monitors echoed around the room.
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"Baby A is crowning! Prep for emergency delivery!"
I looked up through tears, my vision blurring as the anesthesia mask was placed over my mouth. Julian was still standing beside the operating table, his hand squeezing mine, refusing to leave my side as the world faded into absolute blackness.
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