Chapter 3 - THREE HEARTBEATS AND A BILLIONAIRE’S SHADOW
The fluorescent lights of the operating theater blurred together in a dizzying haze of sterile white and silver.
"Her blood pressure is dropping! 80 over 50!"
"We need to perform an emergency classical C-section immediately!"
"Where is the next of kin? Who is authorizing the neonatal intensive care protocol?"
I lay strapped to the surgical table, shivering uncontrollably beneath thin sheets. The numbness of the spinal block crept up my waist, but the terror in my soul burned hotter than fire.
"Ethan..." I muttered weakly through the oxygen mask, delirium pulling at my mind. "Ethan, please... don't leave them..."
"He isn't here, Claire."
A deep, commanding voice cut through the medical chaos. A large hand enclosed my trembling fingers, squeezing with steady warmth. I turned my heavy head. Nicholas Sterling was standing beside the surgical bed, wearing sterile scrubs over his broad frame, his fierce silver eyes refusing to let me slip away.
"You don't need Ethan Mercer," Nicholas whispered, his thumb wiping a stray tear from my temple. "You have me. Push through this. Fight for them."
The chief surgeon hesitated, scalpel in hand. "Sir, the NICU ECMO machines and specialized triple-incubator transport cost over two million dollars out-of-pocket without active insurance. The patient's policy was canceled three hours ago by the primary holder."
Ethan. Even from three thousand miles away, he had made sure to cancel my health insurance the moment he stepped onto that plane with his mistress.
Nicholas didn't even look at the doctor. He withdrew a black titanium card from his pocket and tossed it onto the instrument tray with icy disdain.
"Authorize whatever treatment keeps all four of them alive," Nicholas said coldly. "If a single child suffers because you hesitated over money, I will ensure none of you ever practice medicine on this continent again. Begin."
Tears streamed silently into my hair as the surgical curtain was raised. Minutes felt like centuries. I prayed with every shattered piece of my heart.
Cry. Please, baby, cry.
A tiny, faint wail pierced the tension in the room.
"Baby A is out! Boy, two pounds four ounces!"
A second later, another fragile cry echoed.
"Baby B! Girl, two pounds one ounce!"
Then, a heavy silence fell. The doctors moved rapidly, alarms blaring on the vitals monitor.
"Baby C has no pulse! Start chest compressions! Bag him!"
"No!" I screamed, trying to sit up, but Nicholas’s hands held me firmly, his chest pressed close to mine.
"Stay with me, Claire. Look at me," Nicholas ordered, his own jaw clenching as he stared toward the resuscitation table. He leaned down, his voice trembling with an emotion I had never expected from the cold billionaire. "Fight, little one. Your mother survived hell tonight. You do not surrender."
Seconds stretched into agonizing eternity until a sharp, miraculous gasp filled the theater, followed by a loud, defiant cry.
"Heartbeat restored! Baby C is breathing! All three are stabilized for the NICU!"
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Exhaustion pulled me downward like an anchor into deep water. The last thing I felt was Nicholas’s hand brushing back my soaked hair, his low voice murmuring against my ear: "Sleep, Claire. When you wake up, Ethan Mercer will begin to pay for every tear you shed tonight."
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