Chapter 2

Nathan Chase was a renowned OB-GYN at Downtown General Hospital. But he was always busy. Busy traveling across the country for work, too busy to come back when his wife was knocked into premature labor.

The sudden labor only worsened the hospital’s already tight resources.

After the violent impact of my fall, by the time I was taken to the hospital, blood and amniotic fluid had already soaked through my entire body.

The doctor told me to contact my family, so with the last bit of consciousness I had, I called him.

Once. Twice.

No answer.

I tried my mother-in-law. Still no response.

“My husband is out of town for work. I can sign for myself,” I groaned, barely able to bear the pain, as I informed the doctor of my intentions.

Coincidentally, another pregnant woman was brought into the emergency room after a car accident.

“Doctor, save her first! She’s bleeding from the head; she might have a risk of intracranial bleeding!”

I looked up, and there he was. Nathan Chase, my husband, the man who was supposed to be away.

I have RH-negative blood, the rare “panda blood,” as they call it.

And here I was, lying on the ground, covered in blood, and my husband, the one man I thought I could rely on, chose to ignore me.

Nathan held onto Tina Lewis’ hand tightly, his concern for her all too obvious.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll personally handle your surgery. You and the baby will be fine.”

“I guarantee you’ll walk out of surgery perfectly healthy.”

The tenderness in his voice, the way he looked at Tina, cut through me like a knife.

Without a hospital bed, I lay there in the hallway, watching him shower affection on his former classmate, his “little sister” from medical school.

Patients passed by with their families. Everyone had someone to lean on in this terrifying moment.

Everyone but me.

As my own husband walked right by me toward another woman.

All I got was a cold remark: “You’re just having a premature birth. You’ll be fine.”

Did he not know I had RH-negative blood?

As I waited for my surgery to be scheduled, I felt my eyes grow heavy.

The next time I woke up, I was surrounded by doctors and nurses.

“The patient has suffered an amniotic fluid embolism, and she’s hemorrhaging! Contact the blood bank immediately!”

“Where’s Dr. Chase? He’s the only one in the city experienced enough to handle this!”

The nurses wheeled my bed frantically down the hallway, assuring me everything would be alright.

They told me my husband, Dr. Chase, was the top OB-GYN in the city. He had successfully handled amniotic fluid embolisms three times before.

They even contacted the media to put out a call for blood donations. They didn’t want me to worry.

I was pushed into the operating room, the cold mechanical sounds of various machines filling the air as they reported on my vitals.

“Not good! Her oxygen levels are dropping too fast. She’s fading! Where is Dr. Chase?”

I could feel the anxiety of the attending physician as she clutched my hand, her fingers icy.

The nurse was just as worried but helpless. “Dr. Chase finished surgery on another patient and then… left. Apparently, that woman wanted some bone broth, and he said he’d make it himself.”

“Call him!”

“He’s not answering…”

“The baby’s not breathing either, and the patient is critical. We’re losing her!”