Page 3 of Healing Hearts
As I work through my to-do list, my thoughts drift back to an email I received last night. The one I’ve tried hard to ignore. For years, I’ve managed to keep my two identities separate, carefully compartmentalizing my life as Brooke Edwards, librarian, from the hidden world of Sophie Quinn, bestselling steamy romance author.
Sophie’s stories have gained a huge and passionate following, but they were never supposed to intersect with my real life in Hibiscus Harbor. This place is supposed to be untouchable, my sanctuary, my home. Yet now it feels as if I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff, one misstep away from losing everything I’ve worked so hard for.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the afternoon period, and I use the excuse to tidy up, shifting the stacks of books thathave already been checked in, arranging them neatly for the next class. My phone, still on the desk, feels like a bomb waiting to go off, but I can’t stop myself anymore. I reach for it, swiping the screen open to see if the sender has sent any other emails, but thankfully there’s nothing new.
A sigh of relief escapes me, but it’s short-lived. Last night’s email sits there, bold and glaring in my inbox like a dark cloud that refuses to clear.
I know who you are, Sophie Quinn. I know where you live. You can’t hide forever. The world will see what you’re so desperate to keep buried. What are you afraid of? What secrets are you guarding so tightly? Rest assured; I’ll uncover every single one. Mark my words—there’s nowhere you can hide from me.
My thumb hovers over the delete button, but I can’t bring myself to press it. Deleting the message won’t erase the threat of exposure. It won’t stop whoever’s out there from knowing who I really am. I back out of the app and lock the screen again, shoving the phone deep into the pocket of my skirt as if I can bury the danger with it.
The shadow of that email hangs over me, dark and foreboding, reminding me that the secret I’ve kept for so long is more fragile than ever. I can’t help but wonder if this delicate balance I’ve fought to maintain is about to shatter into a million pieces.
Chapter 2
Trevor
Ireach for the chart as I stride past, the nurse’s face tense with barely concealed urgency. “What’s the situation?” I ask, flipping through the pages even before she answers.
“Severe chest pain, shortness of breath, and diaphoresis,” she rattles off quickly, falling into step beside me. “Possible cardiac event. Vitals are unstable. Blood pressure’s all over the place.”
I nod sharply, adrenaline spiking as I scan the preliminary notes. My pulse quickens, but my hands remain steady, a muscle memory born from years of training and countless hours in the hospital. The hallway feels longer than usual, a stretch of polished floor and blinding fluorescent lights that seem to go on forever. The familiar surge of urgency pulses through me, sharpening my focus like the edge of a scalpel.
Room 305 comes into view, and I push the door open, slipping inside. A middle-aged man lies on the bed, his face ashen and glistening with sweat, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. His wife, pale and wide-eyed, clutches his hand like a lifeline. Her gaze flickers to me, desperate and full of questions she can’t bring herselfto ask.
“Mr. Lawrence, I’m Dr. Jacobs,” I say quickly, my tone calm and direct. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”
“P—Pain,” he gasps, his voice strained and weak. “Feels... like a weight... crushing my chest.” One hand grasping at his chest.
“Alright,” I say, moving to his side. “We’re going to take care of you.” I glance at the monitor, a chaotic dance of numbers and irregular spikes that confirm my suspicions. I set the chart aside and grab my stethoscope, leaning in to listen to his heartbeat, a rapid, erratic rhythm that sends a cold jolt of urgency through my veins. “Let’s get him on oxygen, fifteen liters,” I instruct, my voice steady. “And get an EKG, stat.”
The nurse nods, already moving into action, and I take the patient’s wrist, checking his pulse as the seconds stretch and the air feels thick with unspoken tension. My mind races, piecing together the symptoms, filtering through possibilities, forming a plan even as I reassure the man’s wife that he’s in good hands.
The EKG arrives, and I study the printout with a practiced eye. My suspicion hardens into certainty—ST-elevation myocardial infarction. An acute heart attack. “We need to activate the cath lab,” I say, my voice tight with urgency. “Call cardiology. Let’s prep him for transfer.”
His wife’s eyes go wide, and she starts to speak, but I cut her off with a firm yet gentle hand on her arm. “I know it’s scary, but you need to trust me. We’re doing everything we can to help him, and we’re moving fast.”
She nods, her lower lip quivering, and I focus back on Mr. Lawrence, barking out more orders, my movements efficient and precise. The weight of my role settles deeper into my chest—a responsibility I both cherish and fear. This is what I’m here for, what I trained for. Yet every time I face this moment—the raw, real edge of life and death—it feels as if the air shifts, tilting the world slightly offits axis.
The team moves swiftly, each of us a cog in a well-oiled machine. In moments like these, there’s no room for hesitation or doubt, only action. Time blurs, compressing into rapid-fire seconds as we stabilize Mr. Lawrence enough for the transfer to the cath lab. I can feel the urgency thrumming beneath my skin, a live wire that drives me forward with each breath.
Finally, the gurney is ready to go, and we move in a controlled rush through the halls, navigating the maze of corridors with practiced efficiency. I stay close to his side, monitoring his vitals, speaking low words of reassurance that I hope will calm his racing heart. We push through the double doors, the atmosphere charged with the weight of the moment.
As soon as we reach the cath lab, I step back, letting the cardiology team take over, my chest still tight with the tension of the last few minutes. I watch them work, feeling the faint echo of relief tingling at the edge of my awareness—he’s in good hands now. For a moment, I’m frozen there, the adrenaline still buzzing beneath my skin, until I force myself to take a step back and breathe.
I check my watch—barely twenty minutes have passed since the nurse first called me in, but it feels like a lifetime ago. My heart slows, the urgency giving way to the familiar exhaustion that always follows these types of moments. The weight on my shoulders remains. It’s lighter now but never fully gone.
I make my way towards the next designated patient, I can't help but notice a young couple huddled outside one of the other rooms, their fingers intertwined in a gesture of comfort and support. A pang of longing hits me unexpectedly. When was the last time I felt that kind of connection?
"Dr. Jacobs?" a nurse’s voice snaps me back to the present.
I shake off my thoughts, offering her a reassuring smile. "Sorry, lost in thought for a moment. Let's go see our next patient."
I pause outside the room, my hand resting on the doorknoband my heart beating a little faster as I prepare myself for the difficult conversation ahead. The weight of the chart in my hands is almost suffocating, heavy with the gravity of a complicated diagnosis and an even more daunting surgery to come. I take a deep breath, and I close my eyes trying to ground myself.
With a determined exhale, I push open the door, stepping into the room with practiced ease. Inside, the atmosphere is tense and charged, like electricity buzzing through the air. Mr. Bennett and his family all wear expressions of worry and fear. I make sure to keep my own emotions in check as I approach them.
"Good afternoon, everyone," I say in a calm and steady voice, trying to exude confidence I’m not sure I’m feeling. "How are you feeling today, Mr. Bennett?"
