Chapter 3 - Code Crimson
Consciousness returned not as a light, but as an overwhelming ache that anchored me to a bed of lead.
Every breath pulled against a razor-sharp line of surgical staples across my lower abdomen. My throat was raw from an endotracheal tube, and the steady, rhythmic *beep-beep-beep* of a cardiac monitor told me my heart was still beating.
My hands flew instantly to my stomach.
It was flat. Empty.
A choked, ragged scream tore from my throat. “My baby!”
“Hannah! Hannah, stop, don't pull your stitches!”
Soft, firm hands caught my wrists. I blinked through the blur of post-operative tears and saw Paige leaning over the bed rails. Her scrubs were stained with brown iodine and dried drops of blood. Her eyes were rimmed with red.
“Where is she?” I gasped, thrashing against the restraint of the IV lines. “Paige! Is she dead? Did he kill her?”
“She’s alive, Hannah. She’s alive!” Paige said, her voice trembling as she smoothed my hair back from my sweaty forehead. “She’s in the Level IV NICU. She’s tiny—four pounds, two ounces. She wasn't breathing when they pulled her out, but Dr. Morris and the neonatology team intubated her. She has a heartbeat. She’s fighting.”
I collapsed back into the pillow, a sob racking my entire chest so hard that pain flared like fire across my surgical incision. “Can I see her? Take me to her.”
“Not yet. You lost nearly two liters of blood. You’re on your third transfusion unit. Your hematocrit was barely eighteen when they closed you up.”
The door to my private recovery room swung open with an abrupt click.
It wasn't a doctor.
Arthur Vance, the Chief Executive Officer of Chicago Memorial Hospital, stepped inside. He was fifty-five, groomed with sickening perfection, wearing an expensive charcoal suit that reeked of sandalwood cologne and political ambition. Behind him stood two men in gray suits carrying leather briefcases.
“Nurse Reed,” Vance said, his voice dripping with rehearsed sympathy that didn’t reach his eyes. “Thank God you’re awake. We’ve been praying for you and the child.”
I stared at him, my nurse’s instincts immediately sensing danger. “Mr. Vance. Did the police arrest Grant Wexler?”
Vance exchanged a quick, guarded glance with the man to his left. He walked over to the foot of my bed, resting his manicured hands on the metal frame.
“Hannah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves with inflammatory language,” Vance said smoothly. “What happened on the sixth floor was a deeply regrettable, chaotic misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” Paige snapped, stepping between Vance and my bed. “Mr. Vance, Grant Wexler struck an eight-months-pregnant nurse across the face in front of half the ward! He caused a placental abruption that nearly killed her and her daughter!”
Vance’s expression hardened into flint. “Nurse Kelly, I suggest you lower your tone before you find your credentialing under review for insubordination. You are dismissed from this room.”
“She stays,” I rasped, struggling to prop myself up on my elbows despite the agonizing pull on my stitches. “Paige stays right where she is. Wexler assaulted me. I want the police. I want detective reports filed.”
Vance sighed, pulling a thick manila folder from the lawyer’s hands. He tossed it onto the edge of my blanket.
“The Chicago Police were called, Hannah,” Vance murmured. “However, several eyewitnesses—including the security guard on duty—reported that you were experiencing severe, disorienting pre-eclampsia. They stated that in your agitated state, you lunged toward Mr. Wexler, lost your footing, and struck your head against the medication cart.”
The air turned to ice in my lungs.
“You’re lying,” I whispered, horrified. “There were fourteen people in that hallway. Fourteen nurses, orderlies, and patients. They all saw his hand hit my face!”
“People see what they expect to see during high-stress medical emergencies,” Vance replied coolly. “Furthermore, Mr. Wexler has graciously offered to cover every single penny of your medical expenses, your daughter’s NICU stay, and grant you a private severance package of four hundred thousand dollars. In exchange, you will sign a standard non-disclosure agreement acknowledging that this was an industrial workplace accident.”
“He tried to kill my child,” I said, tears of boiling rage burning down my cheeks. “He mocked my dead husband. He stood there and watched my water break, and you want me to take his dirty money?”
“Hannah, think carefully,” Vance leaned closer, his voice dropping to a sinister, chilling whisper. “You are a widowed nurse with zero savings and an infant who may require millions of dollars in long-term neonatal respiratory care. Owen is gone. Nobody is coming to fight this battle for you. Grant Wexler’s family funds half the oncology research in this state. The Cook County State's Attorney will not indict him on the word of a hysterical, oxygen-deprived employee.”
He tapped the manila envelope.
May you like
“Sign the papers, Hannah. Or you leave this hospital with nothing—no job, no insurance, and a black mark on your nursing license that ensures you will never practice medicine in North America again.”
***
