CHAPTER ONE
MIREYA
Code Blue,OR-3. Code Blue, OR-3.
My blood ran cold when the announcement crackled over the intercom. Instinctively, I hurried down the corridor. My sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as I sprinted past nurses and orderlies, my breath coming in sharp bursts, weaving between supply carts and equipment.
I rounded the corner just as the OR doors burst open. A gurney barreled through, and for one terrible second, I caught sight of the patient identification card clipped to the footboard.
Arthur Graves.
“We're losing him!” one of the nurses scrambling through the OR cried, her voice high and desperate above the chaos."
My chest constricted. The face of his wife, Rebecca, flashed in my mind—her trembling fingers wrapped around mine, her voice breaking as she whispered,Please take care of him. He's all I have.
The cardiac monitor's alarm pierced through the cacophony of voices, blaring machines, and the turmoil crawling through my senses as I pushed into the surgical suite. Arthur's vitals flashed red across the screen. Blood pressure plummeting. Heart rate spiking into dangerous arrhythmia.
“Get her scrubbed in now!” Dr. Riven Cross shouted across the room.
I froze for half a second, stunned. Then my training kicked in.
Without wasting a second, I made my way to the sink, scrubbing in desperation to finish as quickly as possible. The water scalded, and the sharp scent of betadine burned my nose. But it barely registered with the adrenaline pumping through me.
It had been five hours since my shift began, but giving in to the exhaustion was not an option.
Not when a man’s life hung by a thread.
"Time?" Dr. Cross demanded.
“Three minutes since BP started falling,” someone called out.
“Still dropping!” came another voice.
I dried my hands and forearms, keeping them lifted as I pushed through the OR doors. I paused just long enough for my breathing to steady. Sarah, the scrub tech, was already waiting with a pair of gloves. And as soon as the latex snapped around my wrists, my focus narrowed to the calculated movements around the operating table.
Arthur was already intubated and under anesthesia, the ventilator hissing steadily at the head of the bed. The perfusionist stood ready at the bypass machine as the rest of the team took their positions, sliding into place with practiced ease, and moving in rhythm to save another life for the day.
I took a steadying breath and stepped into my designated space opposite the primary surgeon, attentively anticipating his needs.
“Bovie,” Dr. Cross said.
I handed him the electrocautery device before he could fully reach for it. His eyes never left the surgical field, his focus razor-sharp, and his movements precise. Just as they’d always been in the operating room.
In the OR, Riven Cross was a force of nature—cold, precise, utterly unshakeable.
He cut through Arthur’s skin and tissue with steady hands, blood pooling faster than the suction could handle. The sternal saw’s whine followed, slicing cleanly through Arthur’s breastbone before the retractor spread his chest open under the lights.
I swallowed, the metallic taste coating my throat even under my mask.
“Anticoagulated,” anesthesia confirmed.
Arthur's heart still struggled to beat as we secured the bypass cannulas. The perfusionist adjusted flow rates, and gradually—excruciatingly—the machine assumed control of Arthur's circulation.
“Bleeder,” Dr. Cross muttered.
I moved intuitively, placing the clamp where it should be, holding the vessel closed.
He adjusted the electrocautery and sealed the area, smoke rising, stinging my eyes behind my glasses. He released the clamp once the field stayed clear.
