Chapter 5 - THE HOSPITAL BRACELET
The tires of Preston’s Aston Martin screamed against the pavement as we tore through the streets of downtown Seattle.
In the passenger seat, I had completely unstrapped the carrier. I held Grace flat against my chest, rubbing her sternum to keep her breathing steady. The blue tint around her lips was fading slightly, but her breathing was still shallow and labored.
"Talk to me, Hannah," Preston said, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. He swerved through an intersection, running a red light. "What is happening? What’s wrong with her heart?"
"Tetralogy of Fallot," I choked out, the medical term tasting like ash in my mouth. "It's a rare congenital heart defect. She has four abnormalities in her heart. She wasn't supposed to have an episode like this until she was at least six months old."
"Can it be fixed?" Preston asked, his voice tight with raw fear.
"She needs open-heart surgery," I said, a tear finally escaping and dropping onto Grace’s soft cheek. "But I didn't have the insurance. The state program said we had to wait for a specialist. I came to your office today to beg you for the money. I was going to swallow my pride and beg you to save her."
Preston let out a sound that I had never heard a human being make. It was a fractured, agonizing sob that seemed to tear from the very bottom of his soul.
He reached across the center console. His large, warm hand covered mine, which was resting on Grace’s chest.
"You never have to beg me for anything," he whispered fiercely. "I will buy the damn hospital if I have to. She is going to live. I promise you, Hannah. I promise."
We pulled into the emergency bay of Seattle Children’s Hospital. Preston abandoned the quarter-million-dollar car right at the entrance, leaving the keys in the ignition.
He ran around the car, opened my door, and carefully scooped Grace into his own arms for the very first time.
I watched my husband, the man who used to wear custom suits and command global boardrooms, sprint through the automatic doors carrying his daughter, screaming for a doctor.
Within seconds, a triage team surrounded him. They took Grace from him, placing her on a tiny gurney and rushing her behind double doors.
Preston and I were left standing in the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room.
He turned to me. He was breathing heavily. Without a word, he closed the distance between us and wrapped his arms around me. He pulled me against his chest, burying his face in my hair.
For the first time in a year, I felt safe. I broke down, sobbing into his shirt, my hands gripping the fabric as if he were the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered over and over, his own tears soaking my collar. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
We sat in the waiting room for two agonizing hours.
Preston made a series of rapid phone calls. He bypassed his father’s company entirely, calling his personal wealth managers, freezing his private accounts, and authorizing millions in medical trusts. He was dismantling his own safety nets to build one for Grace.
Finally, a doctor emerged. Dr. Evans, the chief pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon.
"Mr. and Mrs. Waverly?" Dr. Evans asked.
Preston stood up immediately, grabbing my hand. "Yes. How is she?"
"We stabilized her oxygen levels," Dr. Evans said, looking exhausted but calm. "But the episode was severe. We cannot wait. She needs the total repair surgery immediately. Tomorrow morning."
"Do it," Preston said without hesitation. "Whatever it costs, whoever you need to fly in, do it."
Dr. Evans sighed heavily. He looked down at a clipboard in his hands.
"There is a complication, Mr. Waverly."
"What complication?" Preston demanded. "I will write you a blank check right now."
"It's not about money," Dr. Evans said gently. "Grace’s blood type is O-negative. It's rare. During an infant open-heart procedure, we need dedicated matching blood on standby. Our hospital blood bank had a severe shortage over the weekend. We don't have enough O-negative for a surgery of this magnitude."
I felt the room tilt. "I'm A-positive," I whispered, the panic rising again.
Preston stared at the doctor. Then, he looked down at his own wrist.
He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve.
Tucked inside his wallet, which he pulled out and slammed onto the nurse's station counter, was a faded, plastic hospital bracelet.
May you like
It was his own bracelet from a surgery he had when he was a teenager.
"I'm O-negative," Preston said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "Take it all. Drain me if you have to. But save my daughter."
