Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE CONFERENCE ROOMwas too white, too still, too silent, like even exhaling too loud might tilt the scales of justice.
I sat beside Khalifa at the long table, pretending to read over the stack of documents in front of me, my leg bouncing restlessly. I didn’t even notice it until his hand landed on my thigh.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
My breath hitched anyway.
His thumb pressed once, firm enough to still me completely. The walls seemed to shrink, the fluorescent lights whirring a little louder, the air thickening. And then, as if realizing what he’d done, he drew his hand back, folding it neatly in his lap like nothing had happened.
I tried to do the same with my thoughts.
Across the table, hospital lawyers spoke in low, serious tones. Every few minutes, someone glanced toward the door, waiting for the inevitable arrival of Mr. Thompson. The name alone made my chest tighten.
Khalifa leaned toward me. “You’ll be fine.”
I looked at him. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said simply. “Because you did everything right.”
I wished I could believe him, wished the truth in his eyes was enough to drown out the memory of the OR.
My fingers twisted around each other. “He’s going to look at me like I don’t deserve to be here.”
“Then look back like you do.” His voice was calm, but there was a ferocity under it. “Because youdo.”
The door swung open, making everyone sit a little straighter. Mr. Thompson entered with his lawyer at his side, his grief and fury so tangible it might as well have been another presence in the room. His red-rimmed eyes landed on me instantly, the hatred in his stare screaming wordless accusations.
Khalifa’s hand brushed mine beneath the table once, reminding me I wasn’t entirely alone. Then, quickly, he hooked his fingers around the bottom rung of my chair and dragged it closer until it was pressed flush against his. Before I could process the nearness of him, he took my hand and gathered it into both of his, settling them in his lap like he was anchoring us both to the same point in the world.
The hospital’s legal counsel, a moderate, silver-haired woman named Denise, stood. “Mr. Thompson,” she said, gesturing toward the chair across from me. “Thank you for coming in today. We’re hoping we can talk through—”
“There’s nothing totalk through,” he interrupted, his gaze never leaving mine. “She killed my wife. My babies.”
The words struck like a slap. Even though I’d replayed it over and over in my head—every monitor alarm, every decision, every second of hesitation—I still wasn’t prepared to hear him say it aloud again.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I began softly. “But I did everything I could to save them. Jennie went into a placental abruption. We had to move to an emergency C-section immediately. Waiting any longer would’ve meant losing all three of them before we even had a chance.”
His face flushed crimson. “You’relying.” He slammed a fist onto the table, papers fluttering. I flinched involuntarily. “Youpeoplethink you can hide behind your fancy degrees and your headscarves and your excuses—”
The sound of a chair scraping back cut him off.
Khalifa was on his feet before I could even react, eyes dark, his tone sharp enough to slice through the air. “Watch how you speak to my wife.”
For a moment, the room went completely still.
Mywife.
His sudden verbal claim on me landed like a physical thing, solid and unexpected, possessive in a way that felt instinctive,protective, sending a shockwave through me so deep I almost forgot to breathe. He’d said it like a fact, like there was no universe where I wasn’t his.
My pulse stumbled, heat climbing up my throat. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but the sound of it,my wife, hit somewhere disobedient.
Mr. Thompson blinked, momentarily thrown. “Who the hell are you?”
“Dr. Nasser. And if you raise your voice again, I will personally escort you out.”
His body stood between me and the man across the table, passive but coiled, like he’d burn the whole room down before letting anyone take another swing at my dignity.
