Chapter 1 - The Code Blue and the Steel Trap
The flatline on the monitor wasn't just a sound; it was a physical force that tore through the room, shattering the sterile air. It was the sound of a universe collapsing.
But Garrett didn’t care. His eyes, completely unhinged and burning with arrogant rage, were fixed entirely on me. His fist pulled back, a blur of motion aimed directly at my vulnerable stomach.
He never made it.
Before Garrett could even shift his weight forward, Victor moved. It didn't look like a man stepping across a room; it looked like a predator striking. Victor’s massive hand clamped around Garrett’s wrist like a steel vice.
A sickening crack echoed over the shrieking medical alarms.
Garrett’s furious roar instantly dissolved into a high-pitched, pathetic shriek. Victor didn't just stop the punch; he twisted Garrett’s arm backward, forcing him to his knees on the cold, sterile tile.
"Get your hands off me! I am her husband!" Garrett screamed, his face turning a blotchy purple as he thrashed. "She stole from me! She used my accounts!"
"You don't have any accounts," Victor said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated in my chest. He pressed a heavy combat boot into the center of Garrett’s back, pinning him to the floor. "And you have precisely three seconds to shut your mouth before I break the other arm."
"Get them out of here!" the Chief of Surgery roared, already grabbing a scalpel. "Code Blue! We have a placental abruption! We need to cut, now! Mask her!"
Eleanor, who had been standing frozen in the doorway, finally found her voice. "What is the meaning of this?! Do you know who we are? We are the Blackwoods!"
"Security!" a nurse shouted.
Two more heavily armed men in sharp black suits—part of the Davenport private detail Victor had summoned—stepped into the doorway. They grabbed Eleanor by the elbows of her precious cashmere twinset.
"Unhand me! My designer bag!" she shrieked, kicking wildly as they dragged her backward into the hallway.
Garrett was hauled up by his collar, his broken wrist dangling uselessly. He met my eyes one last time. There was no fury left in them—only a sudden, dawning terror as he finally realized the men handling him were not hospital rent-a-cops. They were elite operatives.
"Evelyn!" he screamed as Victor dragged him out. "Evelyn, tell them to stop!"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
A plastic mask was clamped over my nose and mouth. The sweet, heavy gas flooded my lungs.
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"Hold on, Evelyn," the surgeon said, his eyes urgent above his mask. "Count backward from ten."
Ten. Nine. Please, I prayed to the blinding ceiling lights. Please save my babies. Eight. The world faded to absolute, terrifying black.
