Chapter 907

Evelyn Carter was reading a fairy tale to her unborn baby when Olivia Lightfoot's voice exploded through the phone.

"Dr. Carter! Emergency!"

For Olivia, who had witnessed countless life-and-death situations, to sound this frantic meant real danger. Evelyn snapped the book shut, her fingers already hooking the white coat from the rack.

"I'm on my way." She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder, buttoning up with practiced efficiency. "Brief me."

"A newborn in the neonatal ward spiked a fever. Clear signs of pulmonary infection, but—" Olivia's voice cracked. "The parents are missing. Even the mother who just gave birth is gone!"

Evelyn's hand froze mid-air. With neonatal infections, every second counted.

"Police notified?" She grabbed her bag and bolted for the door—straight into Alexander Hamilton's chest.

Without a word, he scooped up their toddler from the building blocks and palmed his car keys. "I'll drive."

Three minutes later, the Cullinan's engine roared through the night. Evelyn watched streetlights blur past the window. "Why this car?"

Alexander's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Keys were in the foyer."

He didn't say the rest—they'd have taken a tank if necessary.

The ER entrance lights stabbed at her eyes. Evelyn didn't notice the phone camera glinting in the shadows as she jumped out.

Olivia clutched her like a lifeline. "Still no trace of the family!"

Chaos erupted down the hallway. Evelyn instantly recognized the lung transplant patient and her husband, screaming at the nurses' station.

"Our child gets ignored while others get treated?" The man's fist slammed the counter, sending charts flying.

The wheelchair-bound woman coughed violently, then speared Evelyn with a glare. "Who's playing angel now?"

Evelyn strode past them, her coat swirling antiseptic air. "This isn't a marketplace."

Silence dropped like a guillotine. Watching his wife's unyielding back, Alexander suddenly understood—this was her battlefield. She needed no backup.

Twelve hours later, the steady beep of monitors marked the end of a medical marathon. Evelyn's scrubs clung to her drenched back.

"Still no leads on the family." A nurse handed her the chart. "The mother gave a fake address at admission."

Evelyn stared at the fragile life in the incubator, gut twisting. She remembered her own day on the operating table—cold instruments, colder choices.

Someone had left a cushioned pad on the hallway bench. As Alexander guided her down, he produced a thermal bag like a magician. "Eat."

The sandwich aroma disoriented her. Evelyn chuckled, crumpling the wrapper. "People might think I just delivered."

"There'll be more than sandwiches when it's time." His thumb brushed the shadows under her eyes. "I've memorized every postpartum meal recipe."

The words were a warm drop melting glacial ice. Evelyn looked up into eyes reflecting ER lights—where nine hundred days of waiting and rehearsals lived.