Chapter 7 - THE FLATLINE
The taxi couldn't move fast enough. I shoved two hundred-dollar bills at the driver, threw open the door while the car was still rolling, and sprinted into the hospital lobby.
I didn't wait for the elevators. I took the stairs, taking them three at a time until my lungs burned, bursting through the heavy doors of the surgical ICU floor.
Chaos.
Nurses were running down the hallway. A crash cart was being wheeled frantically toward Room 412.
Leo’s room.
I sprinted down the corridor. When I reached the glass window of the room, my entire world shattered.
Leo was lying on the bed, tiny and incredibly fragile, surrounded by a swarm of doctors in blue scrubs. Someone was doing chest compressions.
The monitor above the bed showed a jagged, terrifyingly flat line.
A high-pitched, continuous tone filled the air.
Clara was collapsed against the far wall, her hands covering her mouth, her body shaking violently. Little Sam was standing next to her, gripping her trench coat, staring at his brother with wide, terrified eyes.
I pushed through the door.
“Clara!” I shouted over the noise.
She turned, saw me, and crumbled. I caught her before she hit the floor, wrapping my arms around her as she buried her face in my chest, screaming in pure agony.
“Charge to fifty,” the lead surgeon barked, placing the paddles on Leo’s small chest. “Clear!”
Leo’s little body jolted upward.
The monitor beeped once. Then it returned to the agonizing flat tone.
“He’s not responding,” a nurse yelled. “His blood pressure is bottoming out.”
I held Clara tighter, feeling the raw, devastating weight of my failures. I had chosen a boardroom over this woman. I had chosen an empire over my own blood. And now, I was watching the consequence of my ambition die on a hospital bed.
“Charge to seventy-five,” the surgeon ordered, sweat beading on his forehead. “Clear!”
Another jolt.
Silence.
Clara stopped crying. She just went entirely limp in my arms, a mother’s soul breaking in real time.
Then, a faint, rhythmic sound cut through the room.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The jagged line on the monitor spiked.
“We have a rhythm!” the nurse shouted. “Heart rate is stabilizing at ninety.”
The surgeon let out a massive breath, pulling off his surgical mask. He looked over at Clara and me.
“He’s back,” the doctor said, his voice trembling slightly. “But we can't wait anymore. We have to do the valve replacement right now, or his heart will tear itself apart. Get him to OR 3.”
Nurses immediately began unlocking the bed, rolling Leo out of the room.
I looked down at Sam. He was holding the wooden train, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. I reached down and picked him up, holding him against my shoulder.
I looked at Clara. “He’s going to make it,” I swore to her. “I won’t let anything else hurt him.”
The surgeon stopped by the door.
“Mr. Vance,” the doctor said grimly. “The board hold is lifted, and we have the valve. But because of his sudden cardiac arrest, Leo has lost too much blood. The hospital’s blood bank is depleted for his rare type. He needs a direct familial transfusion right now to survive the operation.”
“Take mine,” I said instantly, rolling up my sleeve.
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The doctor looked down at the medical chart, his expression tightening into something complicated and terrible.
“I can’t, Julian,” the doctor said softly. “I ran the pre-op labs when you authorized the trust release.” He looked at Clara, then back at me. “Your blood type is incompatible. Because you are not Leo’s biological father.”
