Chapter 3 - The Trauma Bay Reunion
The heavy double doors of Trauma Bay 3 swung open, and my stretcher was locked securely into place against the central monitors. The room smelled sharply of antiseptic wipes, iodine, and cold stainless steel.
"Alright team, let's stabilize and run a full trauma panel," a crisp, authoritative voice commanded from the foot of the bed. "Check bilateral breath sounds, cranial CT scan immediately, and let's get a cervical collar on her right now."
Even through the pounding drumbeat in my skull, my heart skipped a beat at the sound of that voice.
Liam.
I forced my heavy eyelids to flicker open, squinting against the glaring overhead surgical lights. Standing beside the monitor, snapping a pair of sterile latex gloves onto his hands, was a tall man with broad shoulders, sharp graying hair at his temples, and an expression of cold, unyielding professional focus.
Dr. Liam Vance—my brother.
Ethan, who had followed the medical team right into the restricted trauma bay, was hovering nervously near the corner of the bed, dabbing a fake tear from the corner of his eye with a designer handkerchief.
"Doctor, thank God you're taking such good care of her," Ethan began, pitching his voice into that smooth, concerned register he used with investors and board members. "She's been so clumsy lately, you know? Stressed out. And she must have missed her footing stepping out of the glass shower enclosure. It was an absolute nightmare. I found her just lying there..."
Liam stopped dead in his tracks.
The latex glove snapped loudly against his wrist. He didn't turn around immediately, but his broad shoulders went completely rigid. The quiet, effortless authority in the room instantly shifted into something heavy, cold, and predatory.
Liam slowly turned his head, his piercing blue eyes sweeping past the attending nurses and landing squarely on Ethan's face. Then, his gaze dropped down to the bruised, battered form lying on the stretcher.
His eyes locked onto my face.
For a single fraction of a second, the clinical detachment in my brother's eyes vanished, instantly replaced by a flash of raw, volcanic fury so intense it made the air in the room feel electrically charged. Liam knew every scar, every freckle, every expression I had made since we were children. He didn't see a trauma patient brought in from a slip-and-fall. He saw his little sister.
"What did you say your name was, sir?" Liam asked, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet, measured register.
Ethan blinked, momentarily thrown off by the lack of sympathetic bedside manner. He puffed out his chest, attempting to project his usual corporate dominance. "I'm Ethan Vale. I'm her husband. CEO of Apex Development. Look, I appreciate your concern, Doctor, but I want the absolute best care for my wife. Cost is no object. Just make sure she—"
"Step outside," Liam interrupted, his voice flat, absolute, and devoid of compromise.
Ethan's jaw tightened. A flash of arrogant irritation crossed his features. "Excuse me? I am her husband. I have a right to stay right here while you—"
"I said, step the hell outside, Mr. Vale," Liam repeated, his voice rising just enough to rattle the surgical trays, while two burly hospital security guards quietly materialized on either side of Ethan, their hands resting near their utility belts.
Liam slowly stripped off his latex gloves, dropped them into a waste bin, and walked around the side of the trauma bed until he was standing face-to-face with Ethan. The height difference was negligible, but the sheer, intimidating presence of a combat-trained trauma surgeon who had just identified a perpetrator in his own ER was insurmountable.
"You're telling me my sister slipped in the shower," Liam said softly, leaning in close so only Ethan could hear.
Ethan swallowed hard, his arrogant facade finally showing its first hairline fracture. "Yes. Exactly. A household accident—"
"Interesting," Liam cut him off, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Because in my twenty years of trauma medicine, accidental falls in showers don't typically result in symmetrical defensive bruising across both forearms, a fractured zygomatic arch from a closed-fist impact, and internal rib fractures consistent with being kicked while curled on the floor."
The color drained entirely from Ethan's face. He stumbled back half a step, hitting the metal instrument tray with a loud clatter.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about," Ethan stammered, his polished veneer shattering into panic. "She's clumsy! She must have hit the vanity on the way down! You can't—this is malpractice! I'll sue this hospital into oblivion! I'll have your medical license—"
"You won't have a company by Monday morning, let alone a lawsuit," a calm, familiar voice spoke from the doorway of the trauma bay.
May you like
Ethan whipped his head around, his eyes bulging in pure, unadulterated horror.
Leaning against the doorframe, holding a thick, encrypted legal portfolio under his arm, stood Commander Marcus Vance—our cousin, and a senior military investigator specializing in federal white-collar financial crimes.
