CHAPTER 6

Four years later…

The ER of Mont-Beaumont Medical Center pulsed like a living organism on the brink of panic.

Alarms wailed. Stretchers rolled in relentlessly. Doctors and nurses shouted over one another, each second pushing the staff closer to their breaking point.

A twenty-car collision on the main highway had turned a calm evening into a battlefield.

“Vitals dropping in Bay 3!”

“Intubate him—now!”

“We need three more units of blood—go!”

The metallic scent of blood seeped into every crevice of the emergency department, mingling with antiseptic and adrenaline. Medics burst through the sliding doors with yet another patient, their voices cracking from shouting over sirens.

“CODE CRIMSON! Blunt trauma, unresponsive, massive blood loss!”

The air shifted. Every medical staff member paused momentarily at the code shouted.

Code Crimson meant one thing: A life hanging by the last thread.

A veteran nurse rushed toward the incoming stretcher, glanced at the patient’s vitals, and paled.

“Her pressure’s crashing—we’re losing her!” She informed firmly. “Trauma Room 2!”

Another nurse, a resident, sprinted toward the hallway, desperation sharpening her voice into a cry.

“PAGE MIRACLE HANDS! SHE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN SAVE HER!”

The entire ER buzzed with renewed urgency, in agreement over that statement.

Miracle Hands.

It wasn’t just a nickname. It’s a lifeline.

The paramedics pushed the patient into Trauma Room 2.

“She was in the passenger seat! Her companion is being transported here as well!” one medic barked. He gripped one side as his companion counted for them to transfer the patient to the bed.  “Car flipped—she got pinned! Tachycardic, hypotensive, fading fast!”

The patient groaned, barely conscious. Her face was smeared with blood and oil, hair tangled with glass shards. Two nurses cut through her clothes, revealing deep lacerations, contusions forming across her ribs and abdomen.

“She’s bleeding internally,” the trauma chief muttered grimly. “Prep the OR—we’re not stabilizing her here. It’s too risky.”

The patient’s head rolled to the side, exposing her face beneath the grime.

A resident gasped.

“Wait! Is that… Isabelle Valtieri?”

“No way. The donor foundation girl?”

“Oh my God!”

“She has been low-key for a long while!”

“That’s her. She’s in critical condition.”

Whispers scattered like wind—quick, sharp, startled—but dissolved instantly when the harsh crack of footsteps sliced through the chaos.

The double doors to Trauma Room 2 flew open.

And in walked the legend.

Dr. Althea Johnson moved like a blade through smoke.

Black scrubs with her white coat draped over her shoulders. Hair pulled into an immaculate twist. And her eyes, like sharpened sapphire glass.

She radiated control, precision, and authority.

The chaos bent around her.

“Report,” she commanded as she looked at the monitors in front of her.

The trauma chief didn’t miss a beat. “Female, late twenties. High-speed collision. Suspected splenic rupture, internal bleeding, and possible pelvic fractures.” He informed clearly. “BP unstable. We’ve got two units running, but she’s not responding.”

“OR?” Althea asked.

“Ready for immediate transfer.”

She nodded once.

As the team spoke, Althea checked the patient’s pupils, palpated the abdomen, and assessed the bruising pattern, calculating the speed to determine the likelihood of internal organ injury. Blood soaked the sheets beneath the patient, pooling faster than they could replace it.

She looked at the woman, just one look— and something flickered deep in her chest.

Recognition? Shock?

Perhaps some ghost of a memory.

But her face never showed it.

To the staff, there was no visible connection. No tremor of familiarity. No personal ties.

Just a surgeon examining a stranger.

Yet Althea’s pulse tightened.

Isabelle.

The woman who once hid her escape… who once shielded her from danger… who once risked everything in silence. But no one in this hospital knew that.

Althea inhaled deeply, walling off every emotion.

Then her voice hit steel.

“She’s going to the OR now. Move.”

They raced down the hallway, pushing the gurney at a controlled sprint. Nurses cleared the path; orderlies held the elevator; anesthesiologists prepped meds on the run.

Inside the operating room, everything transformed.

The chaos of the ER gave way to a cold, sterile battlefield.

Machines beeped in a steady rhythm. Lights rose like halos above the table. A surgical nurse slid gloves onto Althea’s hands like she was arming a general when she entered after washing her hands thoroughly.

“Patient name?” someone asked.

“Isabelle Valtieri,” the trauma chief answered.

“Procedure?”

“Exploratory laparotomy.”

Althea’s eyes hardened.

“Let’s save her,” she said. She held out one hand. “Scalpel.”

Scalpel in hand, she made the midline incision with swift, practiced precision. Blood welled instantly.

“Suction,” Althea ordered.

The nurse obeyed, clearing the pooling blood.

“Her abdomen’s full. Suction can’t keep up.”

“Her spleen’s ruptured,” Althea said, already moving. “Get the clamps. We’re controlling the hilum.”

The team scrambled.

“BP’s dropping—60 over 30!” the anesthesiologist barked.

“Crank the O-negative to full speed!” Althea snapped.

Her hands moved in a blur—finding the rupture, identifying the source, isolating the vessel.

“There’s a tear along the lower pole, too!” a resident cried.

“I see it,” Althea said, looking at the resident sternly.

Clamps in place. Hemorrhage controlled.

“Spleen’s unsalvageable,” she announced. “We’re taking it out. Retractors.”

As the team widened the field, the bleed suddenly surged.

“She’s hemorrhaging again!” One nurse cried. “We’re losing pressure!”

“She’s fibrillating—no no no—”

The anesthesiologist shouted, “She’s coding!”

“No,” Althea said sharply. She all gave them a brief and firm look. “Not today.”

Most surgeons stiffened. Many froze. Some panicked.

Althea didn’t.

“Push epi. Get the paddles ready,” she commanded, voice steady as stone.

Suction whirred. Monitors screeched. Blood splattered across her gown, but she remained calm, her hands doing the work, her eyes concentrating on the patient.

“Clamp here,” she said calmly, guiding a resident’s trembling hands. “Good. Now there. Hold it steady. Don’t blink. Got it?”

The resident responded immediately.

She isolated the final bleeding vessel, fingers sure and swift, then cut, tied, and sealed it in a single seamless motion.

“She’s in V-fib!” the anesthesiologist warned. “Charging to 200!”

“Clear!”

The shock coursed through the patient’s body, lifting her off the table.

Nothing.

“Again!” Althea said.

“Charging—clear!”

Still flatline.

A nurse shook her head, whispering, “She’s slipping—”

“She’s not slipping anywhere,” Althea growled.

Her hands dove back into the surgical field. “Retractor. More pressure.” She said firmly. She can’t perfuse if she’s still bleeding.”

The trauma chief whispered, “Doctor, we’re almost out of—”

“Then get me more! Double-time!” she barked dryly. “We’ve got more, don’t we?!”

She clamped the last vessel, sealing it with perfect precision.

“BP rising,” the anesthesiologist breathed. “We have a pulse!”

A collective exhale filled the room. But they also know that they aren’t done.

“Check for secondary injuries,” Althea said. “Carefully.”

“No bowel perforation,” one resident confirmed.

“Diaphragm intact,” said another. “Liver has laceration, but minor—she’ll heal.”

Althea stitched layer after layer, her hands moving fast but with meticulous care.

Not a wasted movement.

Not a single hesitation.

The final suture slid into place like the closing stroke of a masterpiece.

“Vitals stabilized,” the anesthesiologist murmured, awe softening his voice. He looked at Althea in amazement. “She’s… she’s going to make it.”

Silence fell—a stunned, blessed silence.

Only then did Althea step back, blood-stained gloves trembling ever so slightly as she exhaled.

“Good work, team,” she said quietly. She looked at them, her eyes calm. “Now, who wants to close her up?”

The staff stared at her as though witnessing a miracle.

And they had.

Four hours later, Althea walked out of the OR, the exhaustion settling into her bones only after the danger passed. She stripped off her gloves, washed her hands, and leaned against the cool stainless-steel counter.

Her reflection stared back from the glass—calm but shadowed, the past momentarily bleeding into the present.

She had just saved a woman who once helped her escape hell.

But to the hospital, she was simply - Dr. Althea Johnson.

Miracle Hands.

The enigmatic genius with surgical precision and no past.

A nurse approached hesitantly.

“Doctor? Ms. Valtieri is stable. We’re transferring her to the ICU.”

Althea nodded as she looked at the chart the nurse handed her. “Good.” She simply stated as she returned the chart. “Make sure she’s monitored closely for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She answered. “Her family has also been informed.”

When the nurse left, Althea allowed her eyes to soften—just for a breath.

You survived, she thought silently. Maybe this time, fate is giving us another chance to set things right.

She turned away, the steel returning to her spine, the fire to her eyes.

She had no idea that saving Isabelle Valtieri would ignite the fuse that led straight back to the man she once loved—and the past she had buried.

But fate was already moving, and somewhere miles away,

Dominic Valtieri’s world was about to crack open.