Chapter 3 - Minutes to Live
The doors of St. Jude’s Hospital burst open to reveal a waiting team of doctors, nurses, and surgical technicians. The atmosphere was charged with high-stakes tension.
"Patient is a 28-year-old female, 34 weeks gestation with twins, presenting with severe preeclamptic crisis, altered mental status, and suspected placental abruption!" the paramedic called out as they wheeled the gurney through the double doors at a run.
The lead obstetrician, Dr. Aris, performed a rapid assessment while moving. "She’s having a seizure! Get her on magnesium sulfate immediately! We need an emergency crash C-section right now!"
Julian ran alongside the gurney, his hand still clamped onto Sophia’s until they reached the red line marking the entrance to the surgical surgical suite.
"Sir, you can't come past this point!" a nurse yelled, placing her hands against Julian’s chest.
"She is bleeding out!" Julian demanded, his eyes blazing. "Save her!"
"We will do everything we can, but you must wait here!"
The heavy double doors swung shut, cutting off Julian’s view of Sophia’s pale face. He stood alone in the sterile, brightly lit hallway, his suit jacket splattered with droplets of her blood. The silence of the corridor hit him like a physical blow.
Julian walked slowly to the wall, resting his forehead against the cold tile. His mind raced. He had spent years fighting Marcus Vane in business, anticipating every move, countering every play. But this was a arena where money and corporate strategy meant nothing.
He pulled out his phone. His assistant, Thomas, picked up on the first ring.
"Boss? Did you meet with Vane?"
"Vane left his wife to die in his apartment," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying calm. "Find out where his private jet is heading. I want every asset, every offshore account, every shell company tied to Marcus Vane frozen or under litigation by morning. Destroy him, Thomas. Don't leave him a single cent to stand on."
"Understood, sir. And Mrs. Vane?"
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"She’s in emergency surgery," Julian said, his voice cracking slightly before he regained control. "Call the top pediatric surgeons in the country. Get them on private transports to St. Jude’s immediately. Money is no object."
He ended the call and sat down on the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room, staring at his blood-stained cuffs. The next two hours were a long, agonizing darkness.
