Chapter 3 - THE EMERGENCY ROOM LIGHTSThe bright fluorescent lights of the Ángeles Puebla Hospital emergency room burned my eyes.
I lay on a gurney, clutching a damp hospital gown around my shoulders while a team of nurses and an obstetrician rushed around me with medical equipment. The monitor beside my bed beeped with a frantic, rapid rhythm—too rapid.
“Her blood pressure is skyrocketing, and she’s experiencing severe uterine hyperstimulation,” the doctor shouted, snapping on latex gloves. “Prepare an IV line for magnesium sulfate immediately. Where is her chart?”
“I’m… I’m right here, Doctor,” I whispered, tears finally breaking free and spilling down my cheeks. “My baby… is my baby okay?”
“We’re going to do everything we can, Mariana, but you should have been on strict bed rest weeks ago,” the doctor said gently, pressing an ultrasound wand across my taut, aching abdomen.
The grainy monitor flickered to life. There was our little boy—moving restlessly, his tiny heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird against the walls of my womb.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
A wave of fierce, overwhelming love washed over me, pushing aside the pain, the humiliation, and the betrayal of a few hours ago.
“Hold on, little guy,” I whispered to my belly, pressing my palm against the cool gel. “Mommy’s got you. We don’t need them. We never did.”
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the emergency cubicle burst open with a crash.
I flinched, expecting Arturo, ready to yell, ready to fight.
Instead, standing in the doorway with his leather jacket slung over one shoulder and a steaming cup of hospital coffee in his hand, was Mateo. But he wasn’t alone.
Trailing right behind him was a tall, imposing man in a sharp, charcoal-gray bespoke suit, holding a leather briefcase and wearing an expression of absolute, cold fury. It was Rodrigo Sánchez—Mexico City’s most ruthless corporate defense attorney, and more importantly, the man my adoptive father had considered a brother before he passed away.
“Rodrigo?” I breathed, staring in disbelief. “What are you… how did you get here so fast?”
Rodrigo stepped up to the side of my gurney, setting his briefcase down on the metal tray table with a heavy, deliberate thud. He looked at me with the same fierce, unyielding eyes my father used to have.
“Your father taught me to always look out for my family, Mariana,” Rodrigo said, his voice smooth, deep, and laced with absolute authority. “And right now, you are the only family I have left. Mateo called me the second you left the hacienda.”
Rodrigo turned to look at the treating physician, flashing a polite, professional smile. “Doctor, how is my niece and her child?”
“She’s stable for the moment, Counselor Sánchez, but she’s under extreme physical and emotional distress,” the doctor replied, clearly recognizing Rodrigo immediately. “She needs complete quiet and monitoring for the next forty-eight hours to prevent premature labor.”
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Rodrigo nodded slowly, his jaw tightening into a hard line. He turned back to me, opening his leather briefcase and pulling out a thick stack of legal documents tied with a red ribbon.
“Good,” Rodrigo murmured, pulling a gold fountain pen from his inner coat pocket. “Because the wedding may be over, Mariana, but the war has just begun. And Arturo Fuentes is about to learn what happens when you mess with a Sánchez.”
