HIS FORSAKEN WIFE HIS GREATEST REGRET

Children Are Resilient

Brett's POV – The Same Hospital

The doors burst open.

I held Vicky's hand. I had not let go since she collapsed in the living room. Her fingers were cold. Too cold.

"Coming through!"

Nurses moved fast. Wheels squeaked. Monitors beeped somewhere ahead.

"BP dropping. Sixty over forty."

"Get a line in."

"Someone page the attending!"

I walked beside the stretcher. My legs moved. My mouth stayed shut. I just held her hand and watched her face.

She was so pale. Her chest rose and fell in small, shallow movements that did not look like breathing.

Vicky.

I said her name in my head. Over and over.

Vicky. Vicky. Please.

We had been happily married for five years. Five years of trying for a child. The quiet grief of each month, the way she absorbed it without letting it break her, the way she turned to me in the dark some nights without words, and I held her without them. Five years of mornings and nights together. Five years of her laugh. That laugh. I would give anything to hear that laugh right now.

Then the pregnancy. Then the discovery that it was ectopic — a tubal implantation that had gone undetected. It ruptured at five weeks. She had an emergency surgery five days ago. They had removed the tube and the pregnancy together. They had told us she was stable.

They had sent us home.

Two days of careful recovery. Yesterday, she had sat by the window and laughed at something I said and I had thought — we're going to be alright.

Tonight, she collapsed in our living room.

I called the ambulance. I rode with her. I told the paramedics about the ectopic pregnancy. About the surgery. About the rupture.

Now she is here. On a stretcher. Her hand limped in mine.

They stopped outside a set of double doors.

A nurse turned to me. Her face was kind.

"Sir, we need you to wait here."

I looked at Vicky. At the doors. At the nurse.

"Okay," I said.

I let go of her hand.

They wheeled her in.

I stood in the hallway. The doors swung shut. The lights above me hummed. I could hear voices on the other side. Fast. Urgent. Medical words I didn't understand.

I walked to the waiting area. Sat down.

Please. Please let her be okay.

Minutes passed. A doctor came out. Young. Dark hair. Steady eyes. His white coat said Dr. Justin Cole.

"Mr. Brett Temples?"

I stood up. "How is she?"

"She has internal bleeding. We believe a vessel that was compromised during the ectopic surgery may have ruptured. Her blood pressure is dangerously low. Sixty-one over thirty-eight and still falling. She is moving into haemorrhagic shock."

"Okay, then save her." I blurted out.

He was quiet for a moment.

"She needs the ICU immediately. Full monitoring, surgical consult, and almost certainly a return to theatre to locate and control the bleed." He held my eyes. "Brett. We have minutes, not much more than that."

"Then what are you waiting for? Do it."

Dr. Justin nodded. "We will. But there's an issue."

"What issue?"

"We have only one senior consultant attending in the ICU right now." His voice was careful. "There is already a patient assigned to him. A child. Post-operative complications from a bone marrow transplant. Very critical. She came in about twenty minutes ago."

I stared at him.

"You just said my wife is bleeding internally."

"I understand that, sir. But splitting the consultant's attention between two critical patients could put both at risk."

Something cold settled in my chest.

"I don't care what it takes. My wife needs urgent care." My voice was steady. "Whatever it takes to make that happen. Whatever the cost to this hospital or to me personally. My wife needs that slot, and she needs it now." I paused. "I trust you to handle what needs to be handled."

He held my gaze and nodded once. "We'll take care of it."

"Thank you."

A nurse stepped forward. "Mr. Temples, the child in the ICU—she's only seven years old. Her mother knows she was taking in for ICU. She's might not make it—"

The nurse made a small sound.

Justin looked at her. One look. She stopped.

"Nurse Judy." Dr. Justin's voice was sharp.

"Sir, I'm just saying—"

"That's enough."

I looked between them. Something was happening. Something cold settled in my chest.

"Move the child." I said desperately.

Dr. Justin glanced at the nurse. Then he pulled her aside. Walked her to the corner of the room.

They thought they were whispering.

They were not.

"Are you crazy?" Dr. Justin's voice was low but sharp. "Do you know who that man is?"

"Sir—"

"That's Brett Temples. He's one of the richest men in America. He owns buildings. He owns senators. He could own this hospital in a twinkle of an eye if he wanted to." His voice was urgent. "And you want to tell him we can't save his wife because of the daughter of a nobody? Some woman who can't give correct details of her child's surgery."

The nurse's face went red.

"Dr. Justin—"

"Move the girl. Now. Get her out of the ICU and put her somewhere else."

"But sir, the child—"

"The child is not our problem. Brett Temples may be the miracle this hospital has been waiting for. This is how hospitals survive. VIPs like him. Not charity cases. Do you understand me?"

The nurse nodded.

Dr. Justin smoothed his coat. Took a breath. Walked back to me.

"Mr. Temples, we will have a bed ready. We're moving your wife in now. The other patient will be transferred to a general ward. She'll be fine there."

"Wait."My voice was quiet. But it stopped everyone.

I looked at the doctor and the nurse.

"The girl," I said. "The one in the ICU. If you move her out, will she die?"

Dr. Justin's smile flickered. "Mr. Temples, that's not something you need to concern yourself with—"

"Will she die?"

A pause.

"Children are resilient like I said," he said carefully. "She has a chance."

"That's not what I asked."

Dr. Justin looked at me.

"Sir," he said, "your wife is in immediate danger. She doesn't have time. Every minute we wait, her risk of irreversible shock increases. Multiple organ failure. Cardiac arrest." He paused. "Your wife will die, Mr. Temples. If we don't get her into ICU right now, she will die."

I looked at him.

I thought about the child. Seven years old.

I thought about the child's mother. Somewhere praying and hoping.

Then I thought about Vicky. I can't lose her. No. I won't lose her.

I thought about going home to an empty house. About never hearing her laugh again.

I closed my eyes.

My wife or a stranger.

My wife or a child.

I opened my eyes.

"Move the child," I said. "Put my wife in that bed. Now."

My voice was quiet. But it was final.

Dr. Justin nodded. "Right away, sir."

He turned to the nurses. Gestured.

They moved.

I watched them wheel Vicky through the double doors. I watched the doors swing shut behind her.

A child will be pulled out of her bed. Moved to make room for my wife.

I knew it. I knew what I had done.

But I told myself she would be fine. The doctor said she would be fine.

Children are resilient.

I had just been selfish and had snatched a child's chance of surviving from her.

Brett, just look away. Just this once, I told myself. Just this once, let me be selfish. This is for Vicky. Yes. For Vicky.

I walked to the waiting room. Sat down.

And I waited.