The Long Flatline
"Clear!"
The defibrillator fired with a dull thump, lifting Emma’s torso off the table.
BEEP............
"No rhythm. Charge to two hundred. Clear!"
Outside in the waiting room, David slumped against the wall, his head in his hands. Footsteps approached down the corridor—heavy, measured, deliberate.
Marcus Vance stood there. He was six feet two, dressed in a battered leather motorcycle jacket and dark denim, his hair graying at the temples. Unlike Julian, who wore customized Italian suits and hid behind corporate lawyers, Marcus had spent the last decade running a non-profit structural engineering firm in the city's industrial district after walking away from the Vance dynasty.
"Where is she?" Marcus asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"In surgery," David said, standing up, his fists clenching instinctively. "Your brother pushed her down the back terrace steps when she refused to hand over the trust documents."
Marcus didn't flinch. His eyes hardened with deep, ancient sorrow. "Julian was always a coward. He takes what isn't his and runs when the bill arrives."
The operating room doors swung open. Dr. Linwood stepped out, pulling down her mask. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, her surgical gown stained.
David rushed forward. "Doctor? Tell me."
Dr. Linwood took a deep breath. "We lost her pulse for four minutes. But her heart restarted on the third shock. She is in a medically induced coma in the intensive care unit. And your nephew is in an incubator in the NICU."
David let out a ragged breath, tears spilling over his cheeks.
May you like
"Will she wake up?" Marcus asked quietly.
"The next forty-eight hours will tell us everything," Dr. Linwood replied, her eyes drifting between the two men. "Right now, she needs quiet. And she needs protection."
