Chapter 9
Hamilton stood frozen in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. He pressed the phone tighter against his ear, his brow furrowing deeply.
"Are you out of your mind, Brennan?" Hamilton demanded. "Aimee screams when she sees a spider in the bathroom. She doesn't do street surgery."
"I swear to God, sir," Brennan insisted. "I watched her do it. She took command of the paramedics. She was... incredible."
Hamilton slowly lowered the phone and ended the call. An image of Aimee's cold, defiant eyes from the supply closet flashed in his mind. A sudden, jarring realization hit him: he had treated her like a porcelain doll for years, and he had no idea who she actually was.
A strange mix of deep frustration and a sudden, violent possessiveness surged through his chest. He grabbed his keys from the desk and stormed out of the office.
He rode the private elevator down to the underground garage. He slid into the driver's seat of his black Porsche 911. The engine roared to life with a deafening growl.
He slammed his foot on the gas, tearing out of the garage. He was going to drive to Brooklyn. He was going to see this for himself.
Just as the Porsche merged onto Fifth Avenue, his private cell phone vibrated violently on the passenger seat.
He glanced down. The caller ID read Celeste. He cursed under his breath and hit the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel.
"Hamilton!" Celeste's voice wailed through the car speakers, thick with tears. "Hamilton, it hurts so much!"
Hamilton's grip on the leather steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. "What hurts?"
"My stomach!" she sobbed. "I'm cramping. I think something is wrong with the baby. Please, you have to come to the hospital."
Hamilton gritted his teeth. He felt absolutely nothing for the woman crying on the phone, but the child she carried was the linchpin of a billion-dollar merger. If he ignored her and the baby died, the board would crucify him.
He looked at the GPS routing him to Brooklyn. He let out a vicious string of curses. He ripped the steering wheel to the left, tires screaming against the asphalt as he swerved recklessly onto the nearest cross street. He blew past two red lights, taking the fastest, most aggressive route possible toward the private maternity hospital.
Back in Brooklyn, the paramedics were loading the stabilized old man onto the stretcher.
Leo was gripping the hem of Aimee's scrub top, refusing to let go.
The senior EMT looked at Aimee. "Doc, since you placed the tube, protocol says you really should ride with us to hand off to the ER attending."
Aimee looked down at her scrubs, which now had a smear of dirt and a tiny drop of blood on them. She looked at Leo's terrified, tear-streaked face. She nodded.
She climbed into the back of the ambulance and sat on the bench next to Leo, wrapping a comforting arm around his small shoulders.
The ambulance wailed through the city streets, running red lights until it pulled into the ambulance bay of City Hospital, a massive, chaotic public trauma center.
The automatic doors flew open. Nurses rushed out with a gurney. Aimee jumped out and ran alongside them, shouting out the patient's vitals and the medications given as they pushed him into the blindingly bright Trauma Bay.
Once the patient was transferred to the hospital bed, Aimee stopped at the yellow tape on the floor. Her job was done.
She walked over to a stainless steel sink in the corner of the chaotic ER. She pumped a handful of harsh, iodine soap into her palms and scrubbed her hands vigorously under the freezing water.
She dried her hands on a paper towel, feeling the exhaustion finally settling into her bones. She turned around, ready to go find Leo's parents in the waiting room.
As she turned, she found her path blocked. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a white coat with an 'Attending Physician' badge was standing directly in front of her, his eyes locked onto hers.
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