The heart in my hands stopped.
Just stopped. No warning. No tremor. No dramatic arrhythmia on the monitor. One second it was beating—weak, thready, but beating. The next?
Silence.
I looked up at the monitor. Flatline.
"Damn it."
My hands moved before my brain caught up. Years of training. Thousands of hours in operating rooms. Muscle memory.
Compressions. Count. Compressions. Count.
The scrub nurse's eyes were wide above her mask. The resident—some kid named Chen, only two months into his cardiothoracic rotation—looked like he might vomit into the sterile field.
"Don't you dare," I snapped. "Charge to 200. Clear."
Paddles in place. The body jerked. The monitor screamed.
Nothing.
"Again. 300."
Jerk. Scream. Nothing.
The girl on the table was nine years old. Her name was Maya. She'd been born with a defective valve. Her parents had saved for years for this surgery. Her mother had held my hands this morning, tears streaming, and said, "Save my baby."
And now Maya's heart was still.
I should have felt something. Panic. Fear. Grief. Anything.
But there was only emptiness. The same emptiness that had lived in my chest for five years. A cold, dark space where my heart used to be.
"Epinephrine," I said. "1 milligram."
The nurse handed it over. I injected directly into the heart.
Waited.
Three seconds. Five. Ten.
Then—beep.
Weak. Irregular. But there.
I exhaled. "We're back. Let's finish this. Chen, close the suction. Nurse, prepare for bypass weaning. Move."
We worked for another two hours. Replaced the valve. Closed the chest. Transferred Maya to the ICU with a steady heartbeat and a fifty-fifty chance of waking up.
When I finally stripped off my gloves and walked out, it was 4 AM.
The waiting room was empty except for one woman—Maya's mother. She'd fallen asleep in a plastic chair, her head tilted at an angle that would destroy her neck. An untouched coffee sat on the table beside her.
I should wake her. Tell her it went well. Give her hope.
Instead, I walked past. Pulled out my phone.
A text from Vivian: "You alive? Drinks tonight?"
I typed: "Maybe."
Her reply came instantly: "Bullshit. You've said 'maybe' for five years. I'm coming over."
I almost smiled. Almost.
Then I saw the notification from the hospital system.
*New patient assigned for consultation. Date: Tomorrow, 9 AM. Location: Cardiology Wing, Room 4. Name: Alexander Pierce. Age: 35. Reason: Personal consultation.*
The phone slipped from my hand.
It clattered on the floor. The screen cracked. I didn't pick it up.
Alexander Pierce.
Five years. Five years of silence. Five years of telling myself I'd moved on. Five years of lying.
And now he was back.
I bent down. Picked up the phone. The crack ran diagonally across the screen, splitting his name in half.
Alexander.
My husband.
My ex-husband.
The man who left me bleeding on a bathroom floor and never looked back.
I walked to the locker room on autopilot. Sat on the bench. Stared at the wall.
My hands—the hands that had just saved a child's life—started shaking.
I pressed them flat against my thighs. Tried to steady them. They kept shaking.
Because the last time I saw Alexander Pierce, I was on my knees in our bathroom. Blood was everywhere. On the tiles. On my thighs. On the tiny, perfect thing I'd held in my hands for just a moment before the paramedics took it away.
Our baby.
Our son.
Already dead.
And Alexander was gone.
I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes. Hours. Eventually, the door opened.
"Dr. Blackwood?"
I looked up. Chen. The resident. He'd changed out of his scrubs. He looked young. Scared. Like he'd seen too much tonight.
"Go home," I said. "You did good."
"You saved her." He stepped inside. "Maya. Her mom just came in. She's crying. Happy crying. She wants to thank you."
I nodded. Didn't move.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
He didn't believe me. I could see it in his eyes. But he was smart enough not to push. "Okay. See you tomorrow, Dr. Blackwood."
The door closed.
I looked at my phone again. Alexander Pierce. 9 AM.
I could cancel. Transfer him to another cardiologist. I had every right.
But something stopped me. Something I didn't want to name.
I stood. Changed out of my scrubs. Pulled on jeans and a sweater. Walked out into the Seattle rain.
The city was dark. Wet. The streetlights reflected off the pavement. A homeless man huddled in a bus shelter. A taxi splashed through a puddle, soaking my shoes.
I didn't feel it.
I walked twenty blocks to my apartment in Capitol Hill. Climbed three flights of stairs. Unlocked three deadbolts. Stepped inside.
Minimalist. Clean. White walls. White furniture. Nothing personal except one thing—a photo, hidden in a drawer beside my bed.
I opened the drawer. Pulled it out.
Our wedding day. Five years ago. Alexander in a black suit, me in a simple white dress, both of us laughing at something the photographer said. His arm around my waist. My head on his shoulder. The sun setting behind us.
I touched the glass. Traced his face.
"Why now?" I whispered. "Why after five years?"
The photo didn't answer.
I put it back. Closed the drawer. Lay on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.
Rain tapped against the window. The radiator hissed. Somewhere downstairs, a couple was fighting—a woman screaming, a man shouting back.
I closed my eyes.
And I saw it again. The bathroom floor. The blood. The tiny, still body in my hands.
I sat up. Gasping. Sweating.
It was always the same nightmare. Always the same moment.
I checked the clock. 6 AM. Three hours until Alexander.
I didn't try to sleep again.
At 8:45, I put on my white coat. Walked to the hospital. Took the elevator to the cardiology wing.
Room 4. The door was closed.
I stood there for a full minute. Hand on the handle. Heart pounding.
Then I opened it.
And there he was.
Alexander Pierce.
Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders that filled the chair. Dark hair, silvering at the temples now. A charcoal suit that probably cost ten thousand dollars. Gold cufflinks. A watch I didn't recognize.
But his eyes. Those golden eyes I'd drowned in a thousand times.
They were the same.
And they were haunted.
He stood when I entered. Slow. Careful. Like he was afraid I'd run.
"Dr. Blackwood."
His voice. Deep. Rough. Like he hadn't spoken in years. Like he'd been screaming and lost his voice.
I didn't offer my hand. I walked to my desk. Sat. Pulled up his file on the computer. Didn't look at him.
"Mr. Pierce. You requested a cardiac consultation. Your file shows no history of heart problems, no family history of cardiac issues, and no current symptoms. So why are you here?"
Silence.
I looked up.
He was staring at me. Just staring. Like he was memorizing my face. Like he couldn't believe I was real.
"Alana."
"Don't." My voice came out sharp. "It's Dr. Blackwood. And you have three minutes to explain why you're wasting my time."
He sat down. Leaned forward. His hands—those hands I remembered on my skin, in my hair, holding me—rested on his knees.
"I'm here because I needed to see you."
I stood. "Then this consultation is over."
"Please." He held up his hands. "Three minutes. That's all I ask. Three minutes, and if you still want me to leave, I will. I swear on my father's grave."
I should have called security. I should have walked out. I should have done anything except sit back down.
But I sat.
"You have three minutes. Starting now."
He took a breath. A long, slow breath. Like he was steadying himself.
"I know what happened to our baby. It wasn't an accident."
The room tilted.
I gripped the edge of the desk. "What?"
He reached into his jacket. Pulled out a folder. Thick. Worn. He slid it across the desk.
I stared at it. Didn't touch it.
"What is this?"
"Medical records. From five years ago. Tests done on your prenatal vitamins."
My hands wouldn't move. He opened the folder for me. Turned it so I could see.
Lab reports. Dates that matched my pregnancy. Chemical analysis. And at the bottom, circled in red ink: *Traces of Aconitum napellus. Common name: Wolfsbane.*
I looked up. "This doesn't make sense. Wolfsbane isn't real. It's a myth. A plant from horror stories."
"It's real." His voice was steady. "And so am I. So are you."
"What are you talking about?"
He leaned closer. Close enough that I could smell him—that familiar scent of cedar and rain that I'd tried to forget for five years.
"There are things I didn't tell you, Alana. Things I couldn't tell you. About what I am. About what you are. About why I left."
I shook my head. "You left because you didn't want me anymore. Because our baby died and I couldn't give you another one. Because—"
"Because Marcus would have killed you."
The name hit me like a slap.
Marcus. His stepfather. The silver-haired man with cold eyes who'd looked at me like I was prey at our wedding.
"Marcus?" I whispered.
Alexander nodded. "He poisoned you. He killed our baby. And he told me that if I didn't leave you, he'd make sure you had an accident. A car crash. A random mugging. Something that would leave you dead and him blameless."
I wanted to laugh. To call him crazy. To throw him out.
But the records. The tests. The dates.
They were real.
"I've spent five years hunting the men who helped him," Alexander said. "I've killed three of them. I have more waiting. But Marcus... he's protected. He's powerful. And he has a new plan."
"What plan?"
Alexander's jaw tightened. "He wants an heir. He's obsessed with bloodlines. With a prophecy about something called the Luna of Two Worlds. He's demanded that I find a surrogate for my brother Derek—to carry Marcus's grandchild."
I frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because his real target is you." Alexander's eyes burned. "He wants you to carry his child. He's been watching you for five years, Alana. Waiting. And now he's ready to move."
The room was cold. Freezing. I wrapped my arms around myself.
"That's insane. That's—"
"I know." He reached across the desk. Didn't touch me. Just let his hand hover near mine. "I won't let him touch you. But I need your help to stop him. Permanently."
"How?"
"Agree to be the surrogate. Let us do the IVF. Let it look like you're carrying Derek's child. And then we trap Marcus. We expose him. We end him."
I stared at him. At this man who'd broken me. Who'd left me alone in the wreckage of our life. Who was now asking me to carry a child.
"You want me to have a baby. For your brother."
"For us." His voice cracked. "We'll switch the samples. Derek's with mine. The baby will be ours, Alana. Ours."
I stood. Backed away until I hit the wall.
"You're asking me to risk my life. My body. For a man who abandoned me."
"I'm asking you to help me save you. To save our future. To give us the family we were supposed to have."
I shook my head. "No. No, I can't. I won't."
"Alana—"
"Get out."
He stood. Didn't move toward me. Just looked at me with those golden eyes, full of pain and hope and desperation.
"I'll go. But think about what I said. Read the files. And when you're ready to talk, call me."
He placed a card on my desk. Turned. Walked to the door.
He paused with his hand on the handle. Didn't look back.
"I never stopped loving you. Not for one second. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll let me."
The door closed.
I slid down the wall. Sat on the floor. Pulled my knees to my chest.
And for the first time in five years, I cried.
---
I don't know how long I sat there. Eventually, a knock.
"Dr. Blackwood?" A nurse. "Your 10 AM is here."
I wiped my face. Stood. Looked in the small mirror on the wall.
Red eyes. Pale skin. A woman who'd just had her entire world shattered.
I splashed water on my face. Composed myself. Opened the door.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Patients. Consultations. A stent placement. A post-op check on Maya, who was awake and asking for her mom.
I was professional. Efficient. Empty.
At 7 PM, I walked back to my apartment. Made tea. Sat on the couch.
The folder sat on my coffee table. I hadn't opened it since the consultation.
I reached for it now. Opened it. Read every page.
Medical records. Lab reports. Witness statements from people I didn't know. Photos of men I'd never seen, with X's marked over their faces.
And at the bottom, a handwritten note from Alexander:
*"I kept everything. Every piece of evidence. Every name. Every face. I did it for you. For our baby. For the life we should have had. I'm sorry it took so long. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you better. I'm sorry for everything. But I'm not sorry for loving you. I never will be. - A"*
I read it three times.
Then I pulled out my phone. Dialed the number on the card.
He answered on the first ring. "Alana?"
"I have questions. And if I don't like the answers, I'm walking away forever."
"Okay."
"Where are you?"
"Your building. In the lobby. I've been here since 5 PM."
I walked to the window. Looked down. Three stories below, a figure stood under the awning, rain falling behind him.
"Come up," I said. "And bring coffee. Lots of coffee."
I hung up.
Five minutes later, he knocked.
I opened the door.
Alexander stood there, soaking wet, holding two paper cups. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His suit was ruined.
He smiled—tentative, hopeful, broken.
"I got you a latte. Extra shot. The way you like it."
I took the cup. Stepped aside.
He walked in.
And for the first time in five years, Alexander Pierce was in my home.