Chapter 3 - The Breath of a MiracleThe silence of the hospital hallway was thick, heavy enough to choke on.
"Tell me," Harrison said.
Dr. Aris pulled off her surgical mask, revealing a tight, strained smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your sister is alive, Mr. Cole. We managed to repair the uterine rupture and stop the internal hemorrhaging. But she lost a massive amount of blood. She’s currently in a medically induced coma to allow her body to recover from the trauma."
Harrison let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction of an inch. "And the baby?"
The doctor’s expression softened further, though the gravity remained. "We delivered a baby girl. She’s extremely small—just under four pounds—and her lungs are underdeveloped. She’s currently in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit on a ventilator. The next seventy-two hours are critical, but she’s a fighter. Just like her mother."
"Can I see them?"
"You can see the baby through the glass in the NICU," Dr. Aris said. "But Khloe is still in recovery. Only immediate family, and only for five minutes."
"I am her family," Harrison said, his voice solidifying, the cold, powerful lawyer returning to his eyes. He flicked a glance at Richard, who was still hovering near the wall, looking like a whipped dog. "He is not."
"Mr. Harrington is the legal husband—" the police officer began.
"Mr. Harrington is currently under investigation for corporate fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy to commit assault," Harrison said, his voice ringing through the corridor with absolute authority. "My firm has just filed an emergency petition for a temporary restraining order and a suspension of his marital rights based on the events at the courthouse. If he steps within fifty feet of my sister or her child, he will be in violation of a court order."
He looked at Richard, his eyes cutting like glass. "Go home, Richard. Pack your things. Because by tomorrow morning, you won't own the house you're staying in."
Without waiting for a response, Harrison turned and walked down the hallway toward the NICU, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floor.
The NICU was a quiet, dimly lit room filled with the rhythmic, electronic ticking of heart monitors and the soft hum of incubators. Harrison stood before the glass of Incubator 4.
Inside, lying beneath a tangle of tiny wires, tubes, and a miniature breathing mask, was his niece. She was so small her entire body could fit in his hand. Her skin was a delicate, translucent pink, her tiny chest rising and falling with the rapid, mechanical rhythm of the ventilator.
But as Harrison pressed his bandaged hand against the warm glass, the baby’s tiny hand gave a sudden, involuntary twitch. Her microscopic fingers curled, as if reaching for something to hold onto in the dark.
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"I've got you," Harrison whispered, a single, silent tear spilling over his lower lid and tracing a path through the dried blood on his cheek. "I've got you, sweetheart. Your uncle Harry is here. And no one is ever going to hurt you again."
He stood there for an hour, watching her breathe, while the gears of his legal empire began to turn in the dark.
