"Go," I order, standing up. The static in my head vanishes, replaced by the crystal-clear clarity of a crisis. "Mother, brunch is adjourned."
We don't wait for a dismissal. We run.
The VIP wing of St. Jude’s is technically connected to the Foundation building where we were eating, but it feels like crossing from a museum into a war zone. When we burst into Room 402, the scene is a mess. The Senator is flatlining, the monitor screaming a singular, high-pitched tone that usually signals death. Two junior residents are freezing, staring at the rhythm strip like it is a foreign language.
"Clear the way!" Jax roars, his voice dropping an octave into his command tone. He doesn't ask for permission; he takes over the room. "Compressions are garbage. Step aside."
He physically moves a resident out of the way and takes position over the Senator’s chest. Thecrackof ribs under his hands is sickening to anyone else, but to me, it is the sound of effective perfusion.
"I need a crash cart," I bark, moving to the head of the bed. "Airway is compromised. Get me a glidescope and two milligrams of epi. Now!"
The room snaps into focus. This is my language. No subtext. No Elton John. No horses. Just physiology and physics.
"Rhythm is V-Fib," Jax calls out, not breaking the rhythm of his compressions. "Charging to two hundred. Clear!"
I step back. The body jolts.
"No conversion," I say, eyes on the monitor. "Resume compressions. Push the epi. Give me three minutes on the clock."
For twenty minutes, we are a single organism. Jax is the muscle, the engine keeping the blood moving. I am the brain, calculating the drug interactions, the metabolic acidosis, the reversible causes. We don't need to speak. I hold out a hand, and Jax slaps the correct instrument into it before I ask. He anticipates my rhythm; I anticipate his fatigue.
"We have sinus rhythm," I announce finally, watching the jagged line on the monitor smooth out into a steady, albeit weak, beat. "BP is stabilizing. Good work, everyone. Get him to the ICU."
The adrenaline crashes as quickly as it came. I step back, stripping off my gloves. My hands are steady. My breathing is slow. The static is gone.
Jax leans against the crash cart, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his three-thousand-dollar suit. He looks at me, his eyes bright and wild, the pupils blown wide from the rush. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.
"We’re good at this," Jax pants, pointing a finger between us. "Saving lives? We nail that. But that brunch? Max, that brunch was a lethal injection."
I look down at my wedding plan folder. It is bent, the colour-coded tabs crushed after being tossed aside during the resuscitation.
"Statistically," I say, my voice quiet in the sudden silence of the room. "The survival rate of this marriage drops by eighty percent if we return to that table."
Jax pushes off the cart. He walks over to me, invading my personal space in the only way I allow. He takes the folder from my hand and drops it into the biohazard bin.
"We’re leaving," Jax says, his voice leaving no room forargument. "I’m not becoming a York, and you’re not having a stroke before the appetizers."
I look at the biohazard bin where my colour-coded folder is currently resting on top of a bloody gauze pad. Then I look at Jax. For the first time all morning, the variables align.
"Get your phone," I say.
Jax blinks, wiping a smudge of ultrasound gel off his cuff. "What?"
"Check the departures," I tell him. "First flight out to Vegas. I don't care if it's economy. I don't care if we sit near the toilets. Just get us in the air."
Jax grins, and it’s the sharp, dangerous grin that made me fall in love with him in the first place. He pulls out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen with the same dexterity he uses to suture arteries.
"JFK to Harry Reid International. Trans-Continental Airlines. Wheels up in ninety minutes," Jax announces. He pauses, his finger hovering over thePurchasebutton. "Two seats?"
I shake my head. "Four. We need witnesses. And I am not getting married without a psychiatric consult on standby."
I pull out my own phone and hit the speed dial for number two.
Preston answers on the first ring.
"Maxwell," my brother’s voice is calm, but I can hear the distinct sound of a suitcase zipper in the background. "I assume the brunch was a mass casualty event? I felt a disturbance in the force around the time Mother likely mentioned the white stallions."
"The binder has been deployed," I say, walking toward the door while Jax holds it open. "We are initiating the Vegas Protocol. Immediate extraction."
