Chapter Twenty-Two
Julien
The second Nathan saw me, he walked over.
I could read his face immediately. Years of working together meant I knew every micro-expression, every subtle shift in his features. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his jaw set. The careful neutrality he adopted when delivering bad news to families.
The news wasn’t good.
“Julien—” he started.
“What happened?” My voice came out too sharp, too loud. “What happened to her?”
“She was having tea with a neighbor,” Nathan said carefully. “Mrs. Channing from 4B. They were sitting on the balcony when Athena said she felt faint. Then she just... passed out. Completely unresponsive. Mrs. Channing called 911 immediately.”
Unresponsive.
Passed out.
Faint.
My mind immediately started cataloging possibilities, running through differential diagnoses with the same precision I used in the OR:
Syncope—vasovagal, cardiac, neurological.
Aneurysm—subarachnoid hemorrhage, no warning, sudden collapse.
Stroke—ischemic or hemorrhagic, young but not impossible.
Seizure—first presentation, no known history.
Cardiac event—arrhythmia, structural abnormality, congenital defect.
Sepsis—rapid onset, systemic infection.
Hypoglycemia—she’d skipped breakfast this morning, said the universe told her to fast.
The universe.
She’d listened to the universe instead of eating breakfast!
“Vitals?” I asked, my voice clipped and professional. If I stayed clinical, I could function. If I stayed in doctor-mode, I wouldn’t fall apart.
“BP was low when she came in. 90 over 60. Heart rate elevated at 110. Respiratory rate is normal. O2 sat at 96 percent on room air.”
Low blood pressure. Tachycardia. Not critical, but not normal.
“Neuro status?”
“GCS was 13 when she arrived. She’s more alert now, but—”
A blur of movement caught my eye.
Dr. Richard Morrison, the head of neurology, my mentor, the man who’d trained me, rushed past me without a word, his expression focused and intense as he headed straight into Athena’s room.
My stomach dropped.
Why is Morrison here?
Why do they need the head of neurology?
What did they see on the scans?
“Julien,” Nathan said gently. “We’re running tests. CT, MRI, full labs. We’ll know more soon.”
“How soon?”
“Morrison’s reviewing the imaging now.”
I stared at the closed door of the trauma bay.
Athena was in there.
My wife was in there.
And I was out here, useless, helpless, unable to do anything except stand in this hallway and wait.
“Can I—” I started.
“Not yet,” Nathan said. “Let them work. You know the protocol.”
I did know the protocol. I’d written half of it. But knowing the protocol and following it when it was my wife in that room were two entirely different things.
Hayden appeared at my elbow, his usual sarcasm completely absent. “Julien. Sit down.”
“I don’t need to sit.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Gabriel said quietly, materializing on my other side. “And that’s okay. But please sit down before you fall down.”
I didn’t sit. I couldn’t sit. If I sat, if I stopped moving, if I let myself think for even one second about what might be happening in that room.
Aneurysm.
Stroke.
Tumor.
Hemorrhage.
Something I missed.
Something I should have seen.
Something I could have prevented if I’d been paying attention instead of being happy.
“Julien,” Quinton said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “She’s in good hands. Fitz and Morrison are two of the best docs we have.”
“I know.”
“And Morrison is—”
“I know.”
I knew. I knew they were competent. I knew they were skilled. I knew they would do everything possible.
But it didn’t matter.
Because none of them loved her.
None of them had woken up next to her this morning. None of them had listened to her talk about cosmic energy and crystal vibrations and the universe’s plan. None of them had—“JULIEN!”
I turned.
Stevie and Woody were running down the hallway, both looking panicked in a way I had never seen before. Stevie’s usual serene, hippie composure was completely gone. Woody’s perpetual smile had vanished. They looked like parents whose child was in danger.
Because she was.
“Where is she?” Stevie demanded, reaching me. “Where’s Athena?”
“Trauma Bay 3,” Nathan said. “They’re running tests.”
“What tests?” Stevie interrupted, and suddenly she wasn’t Stevie the spiritual healer or Stevie the billionaire’s wife. She was Dr. Stephanie Malpas, MD, PhD, medical researcher, and her voice had the same sharp precision I used in the OR.
“CT, MRI, full metabolic panel, cardiac enzymes, tox screen.”
“Vitals?”
“BP 90 over 60 on arrival, currently 95 over 65. Heart rate 110, now down to 98. Respiratory rate 16. O2 sat 96 percent on room air.”
“GCS?”
“13 on arrival, 14 now.”
“Neuro deficits?”
“None apparent. Equal pupils, reactive to light. Follows commands. No focal weakness.”
Stevie fired off questions with the efficiency of someone who had spent decades in medicine, and Nathan answered each one with the same professional precision.
And I just stood there.
Useless.
I was a neurosurgeon. I was supposed to be the expert.
I was supposed to know what questions to ask, what tests to order, and what diagnoses to consider.
But I hadn’t asked any of those questions.
I’d just stood there, paralyzed, while my mother-in-law, who hadn’t practiced clinical medicine for over a decade, took charge.
“Has Morrison reviewed the imaging?” Stevie asked.
“He’s in there now,” Nathan said.
“I want to see it.”
“Dr. Malpas—”
“I have privileges at this hospital,” Stevie said, her voice brooking no argument. “And that’s my daughter in there. I want to see the damn imaging.”
Nathan looked at me.
I said nothing.
What could I say?
That I was the husband but hadn’t thought to ask about the imaging? That I was a neurosurgeon but had been too terrified to think clinically? That I was supposed to be the one in control but was falling apart?
“Of course,” Nathan said finally. “I’ll have someone pull it up for you.”
Stevie nodded, then turned to me.
For a moment, her professional mask slipped, and I saw the fear underneath. The same fear I was feeling. “She’s going to be okay,” she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to trust that the universe had a plan, that everything would work out, that Athena would be fine. But I was a doctor. I knew too much.
I saw too many cases where “fine” wasn’t the outcome.
I lost too many patients who should have survived, and the thought that Athena might be one of them—NO!
No, no, no!
Not her.
Anyone but her.
The door to the trauma bay opened, and Dr. Morrison stepped out—Is he grinning?
Not smiling politely. Not maintaining professional composure.
Grinning. From ear to ear, as if he’d just won the lottery.
Behind him, Fitz emerged, also beaming. His expression was one of pure, unfiltered delight.
I stared at them.
Why are they smiling?
Why are they happy?
What the hell is going on?
Morrison’s eyes found mine, and his grin somehow got wider.
“Julien,” he said. “Congratulations.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Congratulations,” he repeated.
Fitz was trying not to laugh.
Stevie gasped, and Woody made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. And I just stood there, completely lost, my mind still cataloging catastrophic diagnoses while everyone around me looked inexplicably happy. “I don’t understand,” I muttered, confused.
Morrison’s grin turned into something almost mischievous.
“Your wife”—he grinned from ear to ear—“is pregnant.”
My world stopped spinning, and I did the one thing I said I wouldn’t do.
I fainted.