Chapter Five

Day three of the countdown. Twenty seven days left.

I drew another line on the calendar taped to my bathroom mirror. A neat, black slash through the number. Twenty seven more of these, and I would be free.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Black fitted dress. Hair pulled back. Light makeup. Professional, polished, and not at all like a woman whose life had imploded seventy two hours ago.

The healthcare symposium was being held at the Meridian Convention Center downtown. Three thousand attendees. Press. Industry leaders. The kind of event that used to be my world before I traded it all for a marriage license and a man who never once asked how my day went.

I parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance. The morning air smelled like coffee and exhaust and something floral from the park nearby. Normal. Ordinary. The kind of morning that doesn't know it's about to become a memory you carry forever.

I saw the crowd before I saw her.

Camila made her entrance like she was walking a red carpet. Sleek white dress. Hair blown out in perfect waves. Sunglasses pushed up on her head like a crown. Photographers swarmed around her, flashbulbs popping, reporters shouting questions over each other.

"Camila! Camila, over here! Can you tell us about the hospital incident? Is it true Mateo Castillo rushed you to the ER himself?"

She stopped, turned, and delivered a smile so practiced it could have been CGI.

"Mateo is... he's just incredibly caring. When something happened, he didn't think twice. He just picked me up and carried me to the nearest doctor. That's the kind of man he is."

The reporters ate it up. Pens scribbling. Cameras clicking. The scandal had been scrubbed and repackaged into a love story. Hospital emergency becomes proof of devotion. Affair becomes romance. The wife? Not even a footnote.

I almost admired the efficiency of it. Almost.

I turned away from the circus and headed toward the main entrance, weaving through the crowd. Bodies pressed in from all sides, everyone trying to catch another glimpse of Camila's performance.

Someone's shoulder caught me hard in the back, and I stumbled forward. My heel slipped on the polished floor, and for a second I was falling, arms reaching for nothing.

A hand caught my wrist.

Warm. Strong. Familiar.

Mateo's grip steadied me. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, and for exactly two seconds, he held me upright and our eyes met. Dark brown staring into mine. Something flickered behind his expression, gone before I could name it.

"Mateo!" Camila's voice cut through the noise, sweet and bright. "Mateo, come here, the journalist from La Prensa wants a photo!"

He let go of my wrist. No acknowledgment. No nod. Nothing. He turned and walked straight to Camila, placing his hand on the small of her back as cameras flashed around them.

A public declaration. Not in words, but in the language everyone understands. He chose her. In front of the press, in front of the cameras, in front of me.

The whispers started almost immediately.

"Is that his wife? The one who leaked the story?"

"I heard she showed up just to cause drama. Pathetic."

"Look at her watching him. She's so desperate. Probably after the money."

I let the gossip wash over me like noise from a television in another room. Their words couldn't touch me. Not anymore. Not when I had Luciana's face waiting for me on the other side of twenty seven days.

I moved through the lobby toward the main hall, scanning for Santiago. He was supposed to meet me by the registration desk. Before I could spot him, a commotion erupted near the refreshment area.

A child was on the ground. A little girl, maybe four or five, lying on her side with her body convulsing. Her mother was on her knees beside her, screaming.

"Help! Somebody help her! She's not breathing! Please, she's not breathing!"

I was moving before I made the decision to move. My body knew what to do. My legs carried me through the crowd, my hands were already reaching, my mind was already running through the checklist. Airway. Breathing. Circulation.

I dropped to my knees beside the child. Her lips were turning pale. Her chest was barely moving. Her eyes were half open and unfocused.

"I'm a doctor. I need everyone to step back. Give her space."

I barely got the words out before a hand shoved me so hard I fell sideways onto the cold floor. My elbow hit the marble and pain shot up my arm.

Camila stood over me, her white dress pristine, her expression arranged into a mask of urgent concern that she projected outward for the crowd.

"Everyone, please, let me handle this. I have medical training." Her voice was loud and commanding. "Someone call an ambulance. I'll stabilize her."

The crowd shifted. People pulled me back, hands on my shoulders, pushing me away.

"Let the lady work."

"She said she's trained."

"Move, you're in the way."

I stood up slowly, my elbow throbbing. I watched Camila kneel beside the child and place both hands on her chest. She began compressions. Hard, fast compressions.

On a child whose problem was clearly not cardiac arrest.

My stomach lurched. Camila's hands were pressing down in the wrong position, at the wrong rate, on a child who didn't need chest compressions at all.

The girl's lips were turning blue. Not pale blue. Dark blue. Cyanosis. Getting worse with every compression.

I looked at Mateo. He was standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. His arms were crossed. His face was blank.

He didn't move.

I shoved through the crowd. People grabbed at me. Someone called me crazy. I didn't care. I couldn't care. A child was dying on the floor of a convention center because a woman who couldn't tell the difference between cardiac arrest and anaphylaxis was performing chest compressions for an audience.

I grabbed Camila's wrist and yanked it away from the child's body.

"Stop! You're killing her!"

My voice cut through the entire lobby like a siren. Every head turned. Every camera swiveled.

Camila's eyes went wide. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

I was already on my knees beside the girl, my hands on her throat checking for swelling, my ear near her mouth listening for the thin, whistling sound of a closing airway.

There it was. Faint. Getting fainter.

"This child is not in cardiac arrest," I announced, loud enough for every single person in that room to hear. "She's in anaphylactic shock. And if you compress her chest one more time, she will die right here on this floor."

The crowd went silent. Camila's hand was still frozen in the air where I had pulled it away. And somewhere behind me, I felt Mateo's gaze burning into my back like a brand.