Chapter 8 - THE SIRENS
The heavy thud of fists pounding on the front door echoed through the cabin.
"Baltimore Police! Open the door!"
Grant dropped the iron poker. It clattered against the hardwood floor, the sound ringing out like a judge’s gavel. His chest heaved as he stared at my phone, the reality of his ruined empire crashing down on him.
Rachel didn't hesitate. Without a word to Grant, she turned on her heel, bolted toward the back patio doors, and sprinted into the dark woods, leaving him to face the consequences alone.
"Mara, please," Grant choked out, falling to his knees. The arrogance was gone. Only a pathetic, broken man remained. "I'm his father. Don't do this to me. The press... the board..."
"You stopped being his father the moment you drove away," I said coldly.
The front door splintered open, and three armed officers swarmed the room.
"Drop your weapons! Hands behind your head!"
I turned away as they shoved Grant face-first onto the floor, cuffing him. I didn't want Eli to see it. I pressed his face against my chest, whispering that it was over, that we were safe.
Paramedics rushed in behind the police. They carefully took Eli from my arms, laying him on a stretcher to check his vitals.
As they rolled him out to the ambulance, a detective approached me. "Mrs. Whitmore? We have officers tracking Ms. Palmer. We also executed a warrant at Whitmore Health twenty minutes ago. We have the forged documents and the blood transfer logs."
"Thank you," I breathed, the adrenaline finally leaving my system, leaving me shaking.
I climbed into the back of the ambulance with Eli. For the first time in 48 hours, the tight, suffocating band around my chest loosened.
But as the ambulance sped down the mountain, the monitor attached to Eli suddenly blared a high-pitched alarm.
The paramedic cursed, grabbing a syringe. "His blood pressure is bottoming out! The surgical site on his spleen—it’s hemorrhaging."
"What?" I panicked, grabbing Eli’s hand. He was completely unresponsive, his lips turning blue.
"The delayed surgery," the paramedic yelled over the sirens. "The scar tissue didn't form properly because of the delayed blood volume. He's bleeding internally again!"
"Do something!" I screamed.
"We're ten minutes from County General! Hold on!"
I watched helplessly as they pumped fluids into his small arm. This was Grant's final ghost. Even in handcuffs, his selfish choices were still trying to take my son.
We burst through the ER doors of County General—the public hospital Grant had despised.
A trauma team was waiting. At the center of them was a woman with graying hair and sharp, kind eyes. Dr. Aris Evans was nowhere in sight. This was a real doctor.
"I'm Dr. Harmon," she said, running alongside the gurney. "We have O-negative ready. We are not waiting. We are going straight to the OR."
"Please," I sobbed, letting go of the gurney as they pushed through the double doors. "Please save him."
The doors closed, leaving me alone in the waiting room.
May you like
I sank into a plastic chair. I had destroyed the Whitmore empire. I had put my husband in jail. But none of it mattered if I lost the only thing I truly loved.
I took out the crushed velvet box from my pocket. I opened it, pulled out my grandmother's sapphire, and held it tightly in my fist, praying for a miracle.
