I closed my eyes, listening to the doctor's verdict, my left arm sending rhythmic, drilling pain through me. Permanent impairment? I didn't care. If I could trade one arm for Natalie and the baby's safety, it was the deal of a lifetime.
At the hospital, Natalie was rushed straight into the obstetrics emergency OR. The "Surgery in Progress" light glowed red above the door. I was wheeled into the adjacent prep room. Doctors and nurses swarmed, preparing me for surgery and anesthesia.
"Wait." I pushed the anesthesiologist's hand away with my right hand and looked at my attending physician. My voice was weak from blood loss and pain, but absolute. "Treat the wound. Stop the bleeding. But don't do deep anesthesia or that microsurgery yet. Give me local anesthesia. Or something that keeps me conscious. I need to wait until she's out. I need to know she and the baby are safe."
"Mr. Winston, this is too risky! Your injury can't wait! Nerve death is irreversible!" the attending protested.
"Do what I said." I stared at him. "Or would you like me to find a doctor who will?"
He swallowed whatever else he was going to say.
They compromised.
In the OR, they only performed debridement, hemostasis, and temporary suturing, using drugs to forcibly suppress the pain, but didn't perform the hours-long microsurgical repairthat required general anesthesia. Throughout, I felt every instrument working between skin and muscle. The drugs compressed the pain into a dull, persistent ache, but my consciousness stayed razor-sharp.
When they wheeled me out of the OR, my left arm was encased in thick plaster and bandages. My face must have looked like death. But I refused suggestions to rest in a room. I had the nurse wheel my mobile bed directly to the corridor outside Natalie's OR.
I lay there, staring at that closed door that held my entire world's fate, my right hand gripping tight the diamond bracelet—stained with her blood and mine—that I'd been clutching since she was rescued. Every minute, every second felt like a century.
Preterm labor from severe shock...
Just over seven months... Could the baby survive? Could Natalie's body handle it? Would there be complications?
For the first time, I felt utterly powerless. Utterly terrified.
Wealth, power, calculation, control—all worthless in the face of life and death.
All I could do was lie here and wait for fate's verdict.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Natalie
God, why did giving birth to a baby have to hurt this much?
The pain was primal, savage, giving me zero time to adjust. Like someone yanked my soul out, beat the hell out of it, then shoved it back in. My consciousness lurched between agony and darkness. In my ears: the cold beep of machines, medical staff talking, and my own uncontrollable groans. Sweat soaked my hair and hospital gown, sticky against my skin. My abdomen felt crushed by an invisible hand, squeezing, twisting, wringing everything out.
The terror from the kidnapping hadn't faded yet. Mixed with the physical pain, it sharpened into something more acute. The warehouse. That man's twisted face. The glint of the blade. The suffocating hand over my mouth. And Richard... Damn it, how was Richard? I needed to see him. That thought gave me the strength to keep going through the pain.
"Breathe, Mrs. Winston, follow me. In, out—"
"I see the head! One more time, push! For your baby!"
I clenched my jaw and gave everything I had.
Then, a loud cry.
"It's a boy!"
The baby... my baby...
I wanted to see him, but every bone in my body felt gone. I collapsed on the bed, too weak to lift a finger.
I don't know how long I was out before I forced my eyes open. It took several seconds for my vision to focus.
Then I saw Richard.
He sat beside my bed in what looked like a comfortable armchair that wasn't doing its job right now. Dark shirt, top button undone, hair messy, jaw shadowed with stubble, heavy circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted. But those gray-blue eyes never blinked as they watched me, bloodshot but filled with undisguised concern, fear, and... fierce joy at getting me back.
