Chapter 3 - The Longest NightThe surgical waiting room felt like a tomb.
Marcus sat in a rigid leather chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The blood on his tuxedo pants had dried into dark, rusty flakes. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the security footage playing on a loop.
The shove. The fall. The kick.
He had failed. A man who controlled global markets, who commanded tens of thousands of employees, had failed to protect the only two things that actually mattered in his miserable life.
Footsteps approached. Marcus looked up to see Richard Sterling standing over him. The older man held two cups of terrible hospital coffee, though he didn't offer one to Marcus.
"How is she?" Marcus demanded, jumping to his feet.
"She’s in surgery," Richard said, his tone devoid of any warmth. "Dr. Evans is the best OB-GYN in the state. If anyone can stabilize the placental abruption, it’s her."
"Abruption..." Marcus swallowed hard.
"The impact caused the placenta to partially detach," Richard explained brutally, refusing to sugarcoat it for the billionaire. "Khloe is bleeding heavily. The baby is losing oxygen. They are trying to stop the hemorrhage without forcing a premature delivery. At seven months, the baby has a chance, but it will be a long, brutal fight in the NICU."
Marcus ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruining it. "I’ll fly in specialists. I’ll buy the best incubators in the world. Whatever they need—"
"She doesn't need your money, Marcus," Richard interrupted, his voice lacing with disgust. "She needed a husband. She needed someone to stand up to that viper weeks ago. Khloe told you Isabella was crossing the line. I know she did. She cried in my office three days ago because you told her she was 'overreacting' to Isabella's 'friendly competition'."
Marcus flinched. The memory of that argument felt like battery acid in his throat. Khloe had begged him to ban Isabella from the gala. Marcus had refused, citing a major real estate acquisition that required Isabella's father's signature. He had told Khloe to just ignore her for one night.
Ignore her.
"I didn't know," Marcus rasped, his voice hollow. "I thought it was just petty socialite drama. I never thought she was capable of violence."
"Because you only see balance sheets, Marcus. You don't see people," Richard said, turning his back. "If my niece loses this child, or her life... the Rossi family won't be the only ones I destroy. You better pray to whatever god you believe in that Khloe wakes up."
For the next four hours, Marcus didn't move. He sat in the blindingly white corridor, haunted by his own ambition.
Suddenly, the double doors to the surgical wing swung open. Dr. Evans walked out, pulling off her surgical mask. She looked exhausted.
Marcus sprinted toward her. "Doctor?"
Dr. Evans offered a small, weary nod. "We stopped the bleeding. Khloe is stable. The baby’s heart rate has returned to a normal rhythm. We managed to delay labor."
A massive breath escaped Marcus's lungs. His knees nearly buckled. "Thank God."
"However," Dr. Evans cautioned, holding up a finger. "She is on strict bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. Any spike in stress, any sudden movement, and we could lose the baby instantly. She needs absolute peace."
"I'll give her the world," Marcus swore fiercely. "Can I see her?"
"She's waking up in the VIP recovery room," Dr. Evans said gently. "But Mr. Thorne? She’s heavily traumatized. Proceed with extreme caution."
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Marcus didn't wait. He pushed past the doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was going to fix this. He was going to beg for her forgiveness, spoil her, and prove his loyalty.
But as he opened the door to Khloe's room, he realized that mending a shattered vase is never as simple as picking up the pieces.
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