Chapter 3 - THE WAITING ROOM ALGORITHM
Seattle Presbyterian Hospital smelled of bleach and impending doom. Griffin paced the waiting room, an imposing figure of restless, dangerous energy. The twins were asleep on the vinyl sofa, exhausted by tears and terror, covered by Griffin’s bespoke suit jacket.
A doctor in blue scrubs finally pushed through the swinging doors. Griffin intercepted him before the man could take a breath.
“Sloan Callaway. Tell me she’s alive.”
“You are?” the doctor asked, checking his chart.
“Griffin Drake. I’m her… I am her emergency contact.” He almost said husband. He almost said the father of her children. The words burned in his throat.
“Mr. Drake, Ms. Callaway suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a bleeding in the space between her brain and the surrounding membrane. We’ve managed to coil the aneurysm, but the next forty-eight hours are critical. She is in a medically induced coma to reduce brain swelling.”
Griffin felt the ground drop out from under him. “Who is the best neurosurgeon in this country?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I don’t care if they are in Boston, New York, or Geneva. Find the best. I will fly them here on my private jet. Cost is irrelevant.”
The doctor blinked, intimidated by the sheer force of Griffin’s presence. “Dr. Aris Thorne at Johns Hopkins is the leading expert, but he doesn't just—”
“He will,” Griffin interrupted, pulling out his phone. “Keep her stable.”
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He walked back to the sleeping twins, looking down at their fragile faces. They were his. He didn't need a paternity test; it was carved into their DNA, written in the very shape of their faces. A fierce, primal protectiveness roared to life inside him. Whoever or whatever had caused Sloan to run and hide his daughters from him would face a reckoning. But right now, his only mission was keeping their mother alive.
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