Chapter 3 - The Race to Northwestern
The high-pitched wail of the emergency alarm was deafening in the small room.
Within seconds, the door was thrown open, and two nurses in blue scrubs burst in, their faces tight with professional urgency. Behind them, Adrian’s bodyguards, Marcus and another man, lunged into the doorway, their hands inside their coats, their eyes scanning the room for a physical threat before Adrian lifted his hand to wave them back.
"Get a gurney in here," Dr. Sloan ordered, her voice cutting through the noise with absolute authority. "Clara Miller is thirty-four weeks, in active labor, with severe oligohydramnios and fetal bradycardia. We need to transfer her to Northwestern Memorial’s high-risk NICU immediately."
"Wait," I cried, trying to sit up, but a sharp, burning contraction seized my entire lower abdomen, folding me double on the table. "No, it’s too early. She’s not ready."
"Clara, look at me," Adrian’s voice was suddenly there, right in front of my face. He had climbed onto the step stool, his hands cupping my face, forcing my eyes to lock onto his. His black eyes were wide, but the panic that had been there a moment ago was gone, replaced by a cold, stone-like focus. "Breathe. Just breathe, Clara. I’m here. I’m not leaving you."
"Adrian," I sobbed, the tears finally breaking past my lashes as the pain of the contraction peaked. "She’s too small. She’s only five pounds."
"She’s a Moretti," he said, his thumb wiping the tears from my cheek. "She’s going to fight. And so are you."
"The ambulance is ten minutes away!" one of the nurses shouted from the hallway. "The traffic on Lake Shore Drive is backed up due to construction near the bridge."
"We don't have ten minutes," Dr. Sloan said, her hand resting on my stomach, her fingers feeling the tight, hard peak of another contraction. "Her contractions are coming every three minutes now. The baby’s heart rate is dropping during the spikes. We need to move her now."
Adrian turned his head toward the door.
"Marcus!" he roared.
His security chief was in the room before the echo of his voice died. "Yes, Boss?"
"We are taking my car," Adrian commanded. "Get the SUV to the front of the building. Clear the streets. If anyone gets in our way, run them off the road. Do you understand me?"
"Adrian, no," I gasped, clutching his coat. "The clinic has to follow protocol. They have to use the ambulance."
"Screw protocol," Adrian hissed, turning back to me. He slid his arms under my knees and my back, lifting me off the examination table before the nurses could even protest. "I am not letting my daughter die in the back of an ambulance stuck in traffic."
"Mr. Moretti, you can't just take her!" Dr. Sloan yelled, running after us as Adrian carried me out of the room and down the narrow hallway of the clinic.
"I’m taking her to the best hospital in the city, Doctor," Adrian said over his shoulder, his boots heavy on the linoleum. "If you want to help, get on the phone to the Chief of Obstetrics at Northwestern. Tell him Adrian Moretti is coming, and if his team isn't waiting on the deck when we arrive, I’ll burn his clinic to the ground."
"I'll call them," Dr. Sloan said, her voice shaking as she ran to the reception desk to grab the phone.
The waiting room was a blur of white faces and open mouths as Adrian carried me through the glass doors. His second bodyguard, a quiet young man named Leo, ran ahead, holding the elevator doors open as we rushed inside.
The descent to the lobby was agonizing. Every second felt like an hour. I clung to Adrian’s neck, my face buried in the soft cashmere of his coat, the smell of his expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of my own sweat.
"I’ve got you, Clara," he whispered, his chest heaving as he held me tight against his ribs. "I’ve got both of you. I’m not letting go."
The elevator doors opened to the cold, wet air of the street.
A large, black armored SUV was already idling at the curb, its hazard lights flashing, its engine rumbling like a sleeping beast. Marcus had the rear door open before we even reached the sidewalk.
Adrian slid me onto the leather seat, climbing in right behind me and pulling my head onto his lap. The door slammed shut, and the SUV lunged forward with a violent screech of tires, throwing us back against the seats.
"Go, go, go!" Marcus shouted from the front passenger seat.
Through the tinted windows, the gray buildings of Chicago blurred past. The sound of a police siren began to wail in the distance, but our driver didn't slow down. He took the corners on two wheels, the heavy armored vehicle bouncing over the potholes of the Loop as we headed toward the highway.
May you like
I lay on Adrian’s lap, my hand squeezed in his, my eyes closed as another contraction ripped through my body. The pain was different now—deeper, more violent, carrying a heavy, pressing urge that told me my body was trying to push my daughter out into the cold, gray world before we could even reach the hospital.
"Hold on, Clara," Adrian whispered, his hand stroking my hair, his tears finally dripping onto my forehead. "Please, baby. Just hold on a little longer."
