Chapter 1 - The Cold Truth in Room Eight
The nurse’s eyes hardened as she looked at Victor. She had seen his face on magazine covers and financial segments, but in the sterile glare of Mercy Harbor Medical Center, none of that held weight. “She suffered sudden myocardial ischemia induced by acute cardiac stress,” the nurse stated, her voice devoid of deference. “When security broke in, her oxygen saturation was dropping rapidly. She went into cardiac arrest twice in the ambulance.” Every word landed like a sledgehammer against Victor’s chest. The multimillion-dollar deals, the high-stakes boardrooms, the private jets—everything shrank into complete insignificance. He pushed past the double doors, his tailored Italian suit soaked with rain, his hands shaking violently. When he saw me through the glass partition of the ICU, the sight shattered whatever composure he had left. I lay motionless under harsh fluorescent lights, tangled in a web of IV lines, a mechanical ventilator hissing rhythmically beside the bed. My skin was as pale as the starched white sheets, completely drained of life. For seven years, Victor had treated my loyalty as a permanent fixture, an unbreakable foundation that would silently endure his late nights, his cold distance, and his reckless neglect. He placed a trembling palm against the glass, his throat tightening until he could barely breathe. The memory of Selena’s voice echoed relentlessly through his mind: He doesn’t want to talk to you. He had sat right beside that woman, laughing carelessly while his wife was taking her final gasping breaths on the marble floor of the penthouse he bought to show off his wealth. Dr. Christopher Thorne, the chief of cardiology, walked out of the room, pulling down his surgical mask. “Are you Victor Romano?” the doctor asked sternly. Victor nodded, unable to speak. “Her heart sustained significant damage from delayed intervention,” Dr. Thorne warned. “Another ten minutes alone in that apartment, and you would be arranging a funeral right now instead of standing in this corridor. She is in a medically induced coma. Right now, all we can do is wait to see if her brain and heart can recover.” Victor slumped onto the cold plastic chair in the waiting room, burying his face in his hands. The phone in his pocket buzzed repeatedly. Selena’s name flashed across the screen once more. Gripping the phone with white knuckles, Victor didn't just reject the call; he blocked the number, smashed the device against the tile floor, and shattered the screen into hundreds of jagged pieces. But breaking the phone couldn't undo the poison he had allowed into our lives, nor could it rewrite the seven minutes where my desperate pleas had been silenced by the woman he chose over me.
