Hugo snorts, half laughing. “What the bloody hell are you two on about?”
“I believe I may have inadvertently upset Daisy this evening,” I say smoothly. “It’s not your concern.”
I flick my eyes to him in the mirror, a silent command to stay out of it. He’s too drunk to notice, of course.
“It’s fine,” she says, but the tightening of her jaw suggests otherwise. She turns her head to the window, effectively shutting me out.
I force back the frustration. “I’d prefer you didn’t go to the club.”
Hugo groans, head lolling back against the seat. “For Christ’s sake, Cavendish, lighten up. If you don’t want to play chauffeur, just dump us at the nearest station.”
My teeth grind together.Lighten up?
Iamtoo old for this.
Too old for the games, for the reckless decisions, for the sheernonsenseof watching Daisy stagger into some dimly lit, overcrowded club while Hugo—this half-wit—clings to her.
And yet, the thought of her out there, drunk, dancing with him while he paws at her like the idiot he is, twists my stomach into a sick knot.
If my colleagues caught wind of this—if they saw me with Daisy, they’d smirk and slap a label on it.
Midlife crisis.
Sugar daddy.
I might as well roll into the hospital with a Rolex and a red Porsche, and start dating women who call me Daddy without a hint of irony.
I shouldn’t give a damn what anyone assumes. I shouldn’t care about the sideways glances, the murmured gossip, theWhat the hell is Cavendish thinking?looks.
But I do care about her.
I know Daisy’s antics tonight are reckless but I see the hurt fueling them. She’s probably sensing my hesitation—not about how I feel for her, because that’s a bloody certainty, but about how the hell this can possibly work between us.
The last time I stepped foot in a nightclub, I was in my twenties. The last time I danced was a waltz at my wedding.
Tomorrow’s schedule is grueling; by all rights, I should be retiring directly to bed. I deliberately abstained from drinking tonight for that very reason.
But instead, I press down harder on the accelerator.
The steady beep of the monitors fills the operating room, a constant rhythm that’s as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. But then, the pitch changes.
The beeps become faster, more insistent.
Alarming.
“BP’s dropping,” the scrub nurse reports, her voice tense. “Eighty over fifty.”
Too low, too fast.
I keep my hands steady, my breathing measured. Panic is a luxury I don’t have when a child’s life is in my hands.
But I can’t ignore the monitors. They’re telling me what I already know—Ella’s blood pressure is plummeting. If it gets too low, her organs won’t get enough blood.
I glance at the screen, the numbers painting a grim picture. Her BP is still falling, despite our efforts.
“Give another bolus of fluids,” I order. “Hang a unit of blood.”
The anesthesiologist nods, already in motion. We’re fighting to get Ella’s blood pressure back up. But the monitors keep alarming.
