Chapter 6 - Through the Glass
The NICU was a dimly lit world of soft chimes, gentle murmurs, and the steady, mechanical breathing of life support equipment.
Reid pushed my wheelchair through the double security doors. We passed row after row of plastic incubators, each containing a fragile life battling to survive in the world outside the womb.
At the far corner of the room, positioned directly beneath a bright monitoring screen, was Isolette Number 4.
Two uniformed security guards stood near the doorway, nodding respectfully as Dr. Arden led us inside.
“Here she is,” Dr. Arden whispered gently.
I leaned forward in my wheelchair, my breath catching in my throat.
Inside the clear acrylic box lay Wren.
She looked impossibly small. A tiny white diaper swallowed her tiny waist. A small blue hat covered her head, and thin, clear tubes delivered oxygen to her nostrils. A pulse oximeter monitor was wrapped around her tiny foot, glowing with a soft red light.
Despite all the machinery surrounding her, she looked peaceful. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, healthy rhythm.
“Can I touch her?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“Wash your hands at the scrub station first,” the head NICU nurse instructed gently.
I scrubbed my hands with warm water and antibacterial soap until my skin was raw, then rolled my chair back to the incubator. I slid my arm through the round portal window of the isolette.
The air inside was warm and humidified. I reached out with two fingers, touching the velvet-soft skin of Wren’s back.
Wren stirred slightly at my touch. She let out a tiny, soft sigh, leaning her body toward my hand as if recognizing my warmth instantly.
“She knows you, Maren,” Reid said softly, kneeling beside my chair and placing his arm around my shoulders. “She spent twenty-nine weeks listening to your voice.”
Tears ran silently down my face, dripping onto my hospital gown. “Look at her, Reid. Look how perfect she is. How could anyone look at her and see money?”
“They don't see her,” Reid said, his voice cold and hard as iron. “They only see themselves.”
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors of the NICU swung open.
A tall man in a navy blue suit stepped into the hallway outside, flanked by a woman in an expensive mink coat and a younger man wearing gray scrubs.
I recognized the young man instantly from the operating room. He had sharp, dark eyes, a pale jawline, and a nervous, twitching demeanor.
Julian.
Next to him stood a woman in her late fifties, her hair styled into a tight blonde bun, her face frozen in an expression of haughty disdain.
“Reid,” I whispered, grabbing Reid’s sleeve. “Look.”
Reid turned around. The moment his eyes landed on Julian and the woman, his body went rigid.
“Victoria,” Reid growled, standing up from his knees.
Victoria Vance—Julian’s mother and Reid’s stepmother—marched toward the NICU glass window, her heels clicking loudly against the linoleum floor. The security guards immediately stepped in front of the door, blocking their entry.
“I have a legal right to inspect the condition of the child!” Victoria declared loudly, her high-pitched voice piercing the quiet sanctuary of the nursery. “I am the co-trustee of the Vance Family Foundation!”
“This is a restricted intensive care unit, ma’am,” the lead security guard said firmly. “You need to step back immediately.”
Julian stood behind his mother, his eyes darting through the glass, landing first on Reid, then on me, and finally on the tiny incubator where Wren lay. His face was unreadable—a terrifying mixture of panic, guilt, and resentment.
Reid stepped out of the NICU room into the hallway, shutting the heavy door behind him to protect Wren from the noise.
“Get out of here, Victoria,” Reid said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Get your son away from my family.”
“Reid, don't be dramatic,” Victoria sneered, adjusting her diamond necklace. “Julian was merely performing his duties as a surgical resident. Dr. Arden’s hysterical overreaction in that operating room has slandered my son’s medical reputation!”
“Hysterical overreaction?” I yelled, pushing my wheelchair out into the hallway behind Reid, ignoring the sharp pain in my stomach. “Your son was about to sever an artery! He almost killed my baby!”
Julian stepped forward, his hands shaking slightly in his pockets. “Maren... listen to me. It was a mistake! The lighting in OR 3 was poor! I didn't see the aberrant vessel through the amniotic fluid! I was trying to relieve fetal distress!”
“Liar!” Reid stepped directly into Julian’s face, towering over his younger brother. “You knew who Maren was! You saw the intake papers! You wanted that sac opened before anyone noticed the vessel, because if Wren bled out on that table, you could claim it was a stillbirth due to placental abruption!”
“That’s absurd!” Victoria snapped, stepping between the brothers. “You have no proof of these wild accusations! Julian is a dedicated physician!”
“We don't need wild accusations,” a crisp, professional voice echoed down the hallway.
Dr. Arden walked up, flanked by two men in dark business suits holding official hospital legal portfolios.
“What is the meaning of this?” Victoria demanded, turning her glare onto Dr. Arden.
“The meaning of this, Mrs. Vance,” Dr. Arden said calmly, handing a folder to the lead hospital attorney, “is that St. Catherine’s Medical Center has just reviewed the high-definition ceiling camera footage from Operating Room 3.”
Julian’s face drained of every last drop of blood. He stumbled back half a step, his mouth opening in horror.
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“What footage?” Julian whispered.
“OR 3 was upgraded with 4K surgical overhead recording systems last month,” Dr. Arden revealed, a sharp, triumphant smile appearing on her lips. “The high-magnification zoom captured the entire procedure. Including the exact angle of your scissors, Dr. Vance... and the fact that you aimed the blades directly at the pulsing vessel after I explicitly gave the order to halt.”
