Chapter 8 - The Collateral Damage
Chloe’s eyes widened in horror as she saw Ethan collapsed on the concrete floor, surrounded by armed federal agents, and me standing just a few feet away in my blood-spattered doctor’s scrubs.
"What happened?" she cried out, rushing past the security perimeter before a federal officer gently stepped forward to block her path. "Ethan! Are you okay? Oh god, the baby—the stress is making contractions start—"
She clutched her lower abdomen, doubling over with a sharp, painful gasp. Her face turned chalk-white, and a tremor racked her entire body.
Instinct—twelve years of emergency medicine training drilled deep into my bones—overrode every ounce of personal betrayal, fury, and heartbreak I was feeling.
"She's going into preterm labor," I snapped, dropping to my knees beside Ethan and looking up at Agent Miller. "Get a gurney down here from the ER right now! She's four months pregnant and under acute physiological stress!"
"Dr. Bennett, you shouldn't—" Miller started.
"Do it!" I roared, my voice carrying the absolute, unyielding authority of a trauma attending.
Within ninety seconds, the emergency transport team burst through the doors with a rolling gurney. While the nurses hoisted a weeping, terrified Chloe onto the stretcher, another medical team rushed over with a wheelchair to scoop up my unconscious, bleeding husband.
As they wheeled Chloe past me toward the elevators, she reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the hem of my coat.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Bennett," she sobbed, her voice breaking into a ragged wail. "I swear I didn't know he was framing you. He told me... he told me you were already divorcing him..."
"Save your breath," I said coldly, though my hands were already steadying the IV pole attached to her gurney as we raced toward the elevator. "Right now, your only job is to keep that baby alive. We'll deal with the lies later."
We hit the maternity ward on the third floor in a blur of ringing alarms, shouting nurses, and frantic vitals checks. Dr. Hayes, who had operated on Ethan just two nights prior, stepped out of the scrub room, his face grim as he pulled off his cap.
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"Claire? What's going on?" Hayes asked, taking in the surreal scene: Chloe in active preterm labor, Ethan being rushed into the adjacent trauma bay, and me standing in the center of it all with blood on my scrubs and federal agents waiting in the hallway.
"Placental abruption signs," I said, my voice ice-cold and focused entirely on the monitors. "Prep OR four immediately. We're delivering at twenty-two weeks."
