Page 91 of The Cruel Heir

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I didn’t. Thirty to two. Again. Again.

A flicker.

Then, against every odd, Zara’s heart held.

The baby cried. A weak wail that built and built, until it pierced the static in my head.

And Sterling…

He just stared. Not with relief. Not with gratitude.

With calculation.

As if adding up the damage, and deciding what it would cost me.

I left the OR drenched in blood and sweat. I washed my hands until the sink ran pink. Scrubbed until the skin peeled.

But I couldn’t get clean.

Not where it counted.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Or the one after.

Or the one after.

They moved Zara to a private wing. I didn’t check on her again. Not in person. It wasn’t the attending who updated me.

I wish Dr. Robyn James had been there with me. I missed her more as the days went on, and I waited for death.

Some days, her name got passed through the right back channels to get me in the OR, but after that? Silence. She didn’t call. Didn’t text. I figured she was pissed. Or maybe scared. Maybe she’d heard how it went, how close I came to losing them both. Maybe someone briefed her with a version where I looked worse than I was. Or maybe, more accurate than I wanted to admit.

All I knew was, she never reached out again. And I didn’t blame her.

But I knew what I’d done.

I hesitated.

I shook.

And I made the cut wrong.

They survived in spite of me, not because of me.

And Sterling knew.

I saw it in his eyes, when he walked out of that operating room, soaked in his wife's blood and vengeance.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He never would.

So I packed my things. Quietly. I didn’t wait for the next summons. Didn’t wait for one of Sterling’s men to show up on my doorstep, with a cleanup job, or an envelope of hush money.

I left the state. The medical board had questions. I told them the paperwork got lost in triage. They asked for an official statement. I sent them six lines, and closed my practice.

I promised myself I’d never touch a scalpel again.

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