Chapter 5 - A Sister's Tears
Isabella was awake when I pushed open the heavy oak door of Suite 14.
She looked pale, her skin translucent against the crisp white hospital pillows, but the dark circles under her eyes couldn't mask the fierce, protective light burning in them. She was propped up slightly, her gaze fixed entirely on the clear plastic bassinet parked beside her bed.
Inside, little Matteo was sleeping peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling in a steady, rhythmic cadence. The gray tinge was gone, replaced by a healthy, pinkish glow.
I stopped in the doorway, suddenly feeling the full, crushing weight of the past six hours settle into my shoulders.
Isabella turned her head, her eyes locking onto mine. "Is he okay?" she whispered, her voice rough from the sedatives and the ordeal of labor.
"He's fine, Izzy," I said, walking over to the bedside and taking her cold, trembling hand in mine. "He's breathing on his own. He's strong. Just like you."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light before she brushed it away with her knuckles. "I heard shouting earlier. In the hallway. Someone said... someone said the monitors flatlined."
"They were wrong," I said smoothly, omitting the part about the gun, the rogue oxygen line, and the chief surgeon currently tied to a chair in the basement. Some details were better left in the dark. "The equipment malfunctioned. But Nora caught it. She fixed it before anything could happen."
Isabella closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, and squeezed my fingers back with surprising strength. "You promised me nothing would happen to him, Ethan."
"I keep my promises," I said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
As if on cue, a soft knock sounded at the door.
Nora Whitfield stepped into the room, holding a fresh chart and a small tray of medication. She looked hesitant, her shoulders slightly hunched, as if she expected me to pull a weapon on her even here, in the quiet aftermath.
Isabella looked up, confused. "Who are you?"
"Nora Whitfield, Mrs. Vance," the young nurse said politely, stepping further into the room. "I’m on the night shift. I just came to check his vitals one last time before my shift ends."
Isabella looked from Nora to me, a sudden wave of intuition crossing her face. "You're the one who saved him."
Nora offered a small, tired smile. "I just noticed something was wrong with the hardware, ma'am. Any nurse on the floor would have done the same."
"No, they wouldn't have," I said, stepping away from the bed to give Nora room. "Fifteen specialists stood there watching him die. You were the only one who looked past the numbers."
Nora checked the readout on the bassinet, her expression professional and tender as she adjusted Matteo’s blanket. "When you spend enough time in the trenches, Mr. Vance, you learn to trust your instincts over the textbooks. Books don't smell burnt sugar."
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Isabella reached out, her fingers brushing against Nora’s sleeve. "Thank you. For my son. If there's anything—anything at all—I can ever do for you, you name it."
Nora looked up, meeting my eyes across the bassinet. There was a quiet resolve in her gaze, an unspoken understanding that the night's events were only the beginning of a much larger reckoning.
