Looking sternly at Katelyn, he said, “I need a definitive answer. Will Hades come to save him or not? I can’t seem to reach her.”
Katelyn held up her phone with a calm gesture. “I’ve informed Hades. She’s on her way. She has also indicated that this will be her final act of support for Jamison. She refuses to be dragged into your conflicts any further. If you persist in your maltreatment of Jamison, she will not intervene again.”
Her expertise in medicine was both exceptional and rare. A long line of terminally ill patients waited for her assistance, and she simply didn’t have the time or energy to waste on Langston and his twisted game.
Langston’s expression contorted with fury, so fierce it seemed he might wish to destroy everything around him. At that moment, a crisis occurred in the operating room, prompting a nurse to hurry out, clearly distressed.
“Has Dr. Hades not arrived yet? The patient is on the brink of death.”
Katelyn’s fingers curled tightly into fists as if bracing for impact. No more delays—there wasn’t time for hesitation. Holding her phone like it was her lifeline, she glanced at Vincent and said, “Hades is already at the hospital entrance. I’ll go meet her.”
Without waiting for a reply, Katelyn turned on her heel and headed for the door. Vincent watched her go, his brow furrowed and his worry plain.
Katelyn had prepared for moments like this. To ensure no obstacles, she kept spare sets of Hades’ clothes in her car, at home, and at the hospital. Finding a quiet corner, she swiftly changed into the disguise—a crisp outfit and a snug mask—transforming seamlessly before hurrying back toward the operating room.
The weight of the Walsh family’s dark secrets pressed on her, but her instincts wouldn’t let her walk away. Her duty as a doctor outweighed everything else. Jamison was in critical condition.
Monitors screamed warnings—his heart rate plummeting endlessly, oxygen levels nose-diving, numbers flashing in a desperate race against time. She drew in a steadying breath, her hands steady as they hovered above the surgical tools.
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“Forceps.”
“Hemostatic clamp.”
“Prepare one milliliter of adrenaline—IV push.” Her commands were firm, breaking the silence as her team moved in sync. Every slice of the scalpel, every stitch, felt like a battle.
Slowly, the storm calmed. Jamison’s vitals began to steady. Relief flooded her for a moment, but just as she prepared to let another doctor take over for the sutures, disaster struck.
A nurse, moving too quickly, stumbled toward her. Before Katelyn could step back, a scalpel slashed through her glove, slicing her hand.
“What are you doing?” Katelyn barked.
In the meticulously clean environment of an operating room, even a small cut that bled could risk causing a serious infection. This was considered a significant no-go in surgery.
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