I rushed through the hospital corridor, barely able to breathe as I clutched my purse against my chest. The fluorescent lights blurred overhead, stretching into long white streaks as my heels struck the floor too fast, too loud. The call had come only fifteen minutes earlier—a trembling voice telling me my husband, Ethan, had fallen down the stairs at his office and suffered a severe head injury. Critical condition. Emergency surgery. Possible brain trauma.
I hadn’t asked who was calling. I hadn’t asked why they sounded nervous. I only knew one thing: Ethan needed me.
I grabbed my keys and drove as if fear itself were chasing me, every red light an insult, every second an unbearable delay. By the time I reached the operating wing, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely push through the doors.
A tall nurse with short blonde hair intercepted me almost immediately. Her posture was rigid, her eyes darting past me as if she expected someone else to arrive any second.
“Mrs. Ward?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Please—where is my husband? They said he was critical.”
She stepped closer, far too close, and glanced over my shoulder. Then she leaned in until her breath brushed my ear.
“Quick,” she murmured. “Hide. Trust me. It’s a trap.”
My mind went blank. “What? What are you talking about?”
She didn’t answer. Her hand clamped around my wrist—not rough, but urgent—and she pulled me behind a tall storage cabinet near the corner of the hallway. I wanted to protest, to scream for help, but something in her shaking fingers stopped me cold.
Footsteps echoed.
Two men walked past us, both wearing medical coats with clipped badges. At first glance, they looked like doctors. But something was off—their movements too stiff, their eyes too alert, like men pretending to belong somewhere they didn’t.
The nurse raised a finger to her lips.
They entered the operating room.
Through the small glass window in the door, I saw my husband lying on the table. A masked man stood over him, gloved hands resting casually at his sides.