Page 90 of His to Protect
“I already did.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MIREYA
Hot water scaldedmy skin as I scrubbed my arms in long, methodical strokes—past my wrists, past my elbows, exactly two minutes with thirty seconds per surface. The ritual never changed, and I needed that stability more than ever right now.
I looked through the observation window to see the team preparing the room. They laid out the instruments in straight rows while the anesthesia monitors hummed quietly in the background. The surgical table sat under bright, harsh lights, waiting for the patient to arrive.
Abigail Hale was already asleep and draped for the procedure. She was a forty-eight-year-old woman who had ignored her symptoms for three years. Her body had finally reached a point where she had no other choice but to seek help.
Her condition was complex—a mitral valve prolapse with severe regurgitation, significant calcification of the aortic valve, and several major blockages in her coronary arteries. A case like this required much more than basic skill. It demanded absolute precision in every movement and every decision I made.
I turned the water off with my elbow and pushed through the swinging doors with my arms raised. Water dripped from my forearms as I stepped into the sterile environment.
The hospital board had officially dropped the ethics review yesterday. Riven had taken over as the CEO, which removed the reporting structure that made our relationship a problem. But Riven and I hadn't had time alone together since. I didn't know where his head was, and he didn't know where mine was. Everything had happened so fast—I couldn't even find the space to be excited. Every quiet moment filled with worry for him instead.
Even though the legal issue was gone, the gossip hadn't stopped. The nurses looked at me differently when I walked down the hall. Other surgeons seemed to question my abilities in ways they never had before. An unspoken assumption hung in the air during every conversation—that assumed I reached this position because of Riven rather than my own hard work.
This surgery was my only chance to prove those people wrong.
"Are you ready to start, Mireya?" Dr. Bree asked as she walked into the room, already gowned with her gaze sharp above her mask. She was a new member of our cardiac team known for being demanding. People respected her because she judged others on their skill rather than hospital politics.
“I'm ready.” I held my arms out as a nurse helped me into my gown, my voice steady.
Dr. Bree stood across from me and looked at me over her mask. "Let’s try to give Mrs. Hale a real chance today."
The procedure started with a deep, focused silence that you only find in an operating room. The anesthesiologist began calling out the patient's vitals in a steady rhythm. Bree made the first cut with steady hands, and I moved quickly to assist her. I pulled back the tissue and tried to anticipate what she needed before she even asked for it. We moved through the steps of suctioning and retracting like we were part of a rehearseddance. We had done this choreography many times before with different partners and different patients.
The opening of the chest went smoothly. Bree used the saw to split the sternum, and I placed the retractor to hold the chest open. The heart sat right there under a thin membrane, waiting for us to begin. For a quick second, the room seemed to hold its breath with me. We were about to stop this woman's heart and put her on a machine. We were holding her entire life in our hands while we fixed the damage from years of neglect.
"Switching to bypass now," Bree said, and the technician confirmed they were ready.
I helped connect the tubes to the main artery and the heart. These lines would carry Abigail’s blood through a machine to give it oxygen while her heart was still. The numbers on the monitors began to change as the machine took over the work of her body.
"Cross-clamp," Bree requested, and I handed her the tool without a second of delay.
The aorta was clamped tight, and cardioplegia solution flowed. Abigail’s heart, which was beating just a moment ago, came to a complete stop.
The most difficult part of the day was finally beginning.
Bree opened the heart to get a look at the mitral valve. I adjusted my position to give her the best possible view of the area. The valve was floppy and failing to close, which was a classic sign of prolapse. However, the calcium buildup was much worse than the imaging had suggested. Hard deposits encrusted the tissue like barnacles on a ship's hull.
"We have to clean out more than I planned," Bree murmured, reaching for a tool.
I used the suction to keep the area clear while she worked. Every single movement mattered. Every second felt vital, eventhough time seemed to move differently in this room—stretching and compressing at the same time.
Bree cut away the damaged tissue and started the reconstruction with a small patch. I held the threads and cut them when she told me to. I kept the tension perfect while she secured every single stitch. The work was delicate, like rebuilding a tiny piece of architecture that disease had ruined.
"That looks good," Bree said after she finished testing the new repair. "Now let’s move on to the aortic valve."
The second valve was in even worse shape than the first one. It was so covered in calcium that the tissue barely moved at all. Bree decided it was better to replace it entirely rather than trying to fix it. I got the mechanical valve ready while she removed the diseased tissue. This new valve would make a clicking sound with every heartbeat for the rest of Abigail’s life. It would be a permanent reminder that she survived because of this specific moment.
Bree measured the opening and picked out the right size for the new valve. She started sewing it into place with careful, movements. I assisted her by holding the small pads and passing the sutures. I stayed focused on keeping everything sterile and perfect, just like I always did in this room.
That was the exact moment when everything started to go wrong.
"The patient's pressure is dropping fast," the anesthesiologist called out. "We’re at eighty over forty and still falling."
