The Mistress
Julian stood by the wall, the bloody smile still etched onto his face, his eyes fixed on the small, limp form cradled in the head nurse’s trembling hands.
“She’s not breathing,” I whispered, the words feeling like jagged stones in my throat. “Zander… why isn’t she breathing?”
Aris was there suddenly, her professional mask shattered into a thousand pieces of grief. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t look at the monitor. She reached for the infant, her movements frantic, her hands moving in the practiced motions of resuscitation that felt, even in the moment, like a rehearsal for a funeral.
“Adrenaline, now!” Aris shouted, her voice cracking. “Get the crash cart!”