Chapter 1 - The Ninety-Six Seconds
The ninety-six seconds felt less like time and more like an abyss carved out of cold ocean water. There was no bright tunnel, no distant choir, and no comforting presence waiting with open arms. There was only the dreadful, rhythmic thud of a chest compressor slamming against my breastbone, followed by an agonizing static that hissed in my ears like broken television noise. Above me, the fluorescent lights of the trauma bay flared and dissolved into pale halos. Dr. Elena Brooks was shouting orders, her usually calm clinical register fraying into raw desperation. “Give me another milligram of epi! Charge to two hundred! Clear!”
The electrical strike hammered through my rib cage, arching my spine off the bloodied mattress. I did not breathe, but something deep within my nervous system registered the violence of the shock. Through the small rectangular window of the surgical suite, Daniel stood petrified. His jaw hung slightly slack, his hands shoved halfway into his suit pockets as if he were trying to hide the trembling fingers that had touched another woman mere hours before. Next to him, Vanessa Hale did not look away. Her fingers were casually resting on his arm, nails painted the exact shade of cherry lacquer that matched her patent heels. She was leaning slightly back against the corridor wall, the posture of a patron enjoying the final act of a long-delayed tragedy.
She did not flinch when the defibrillator fired again. She simply adjusted the strap of her leather handbag and whispered something into Daniel's ear. Daniel’s eyes flickered down to the floor, nodding once, a puppet strung along by guilt and whispered promises. They believed it was over. In the hospital corridor at 1:14 in the morning, with blood soaking through four layers of sterile surgical drapes, Claire Mercer was officially slipping off the ledger of inconvenient liabilities.
Then came the cry.
It was thin, jagged, and wet, like a kitten crying out from the bottom of an abandoned well. One of the pediatric surgeons stepped away from the warming table, his gloved hands cradling a miniature, purplish form wrapped in cellophane and cotton. “Baby A is out. Girl. Heart rate eighty, breathing shallow. Bag her now!”
Before the relief could register, another shout tore through the room. “Placenta abruption is total! Baby B is bradycardic. Get the clamps, we have thirty seconds!”
Dr. Brooks jammed her thumbs into my pelvic artery, using her entire body weight to stem the hemorrhage while the secondary obstetrician plunged his hands into the incision. My heart line on the monitor remained a flat, terrifying drone that pierced the air. Beep. Continuous, unyielding silence between beats. Yet in that dark void where my mind hovered, an ancient, feral rage suddenly ignited. They were cutting my flesh to pull my children into a world where their father stood outside with his mistress, waiting for their mother’s body to cool so they could claim the life insurance and walk into our house unbothered.
No.
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My hand, limp and cold against the aluminum rail, twitched. My index finger scraped against the metal. “We have sinus rhythm!” a nurse screamed, her voice cracking under the adrenaline surge. “V-fib converted! Pulse is back at forty... fifty-two... sixty!”
The flatline broke into jagged peaks. Oxygen slammed into my lungs like shattered glass, dragging an involuntary, bloody gasp from my throat. My eyelids fluttered open just enough to catch the corridor through the glass. Vanessa had stepped closer, her smug smile instantly collapsing into wide, dilated horror as she watched the flat green line jump back to life.
