Chapter 2 - Code Crimson
The paramedics burst through the heavy mahogany doors like a tidal wave of blue uniforms and emergency equipment. Within seconds, my grandfather’s opulent foyer was transformed into a trauma bay. The stench of sterile gauze and antiseptic collided with the aroma of expensive champagne and roasted meats from the dining room.
“Patient is approximately thirty-four weeks gestation, victim of a fall from height—twenty stairs onto hard granite,” the lead paramedic shouted, dropping to his knees beside Mark. “Visible vaginal hemorrhage, hypertensive, tachycardic. We have potential uterine rupture or severe placental abruption! Prep the backboard, now!”
Firm, practiced hands immobilized my neck. A cold cervical collar clicked tightly beneath my jaw, forcing my gaze straight up toward the ceiling. Every slight shift of my pelvis elicited an involuntary scream from my throat—a raw, animalistic sound that tore through the stunned silence of the Sterling estate.
“Sarah, sweetheart, I’m right here,” Mark whispered into my ear, refusing to let go of my left hand even as the medics strapped my torso to the board. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red. “Don’t let go. You fight for us. You fight for him.”
As they lifted the gurney, I caught one last glimpse of my parents. Evelyn was whispering venomously into Richard’s ear, while Chloe applied lip gloss using her phone’s camera, entirely unfazed. Richard’s jaw was set tight, but beneath his arrogant facade, I saw a flicker of nervous calculation. He wasn't worried about my life; he was calculating the liability.
“Move, move, make room!” the paramedics shouted, wheeling me through the crowded foyer.
The cold night air hit my face like a slap as we exited the mansion, followed immediately by the suffocating interior of the ambulance. Doors slammed shut. The siren engaged with an ear-splitting howl, throwing Mark backward into the jump seat as the driver accelerated down the long winding driveway.
Inside the cabin, the paramedic immediately applied an ultrasound probe coated with cold gel onto my bare, bruised stomach. The machine whined, its screen casting an eerie green glow over the paramedic’s tense face.
“Can you hear it?” I pleaded, choking on my own tears. The monitor made faint static noises, but there was no galloping rhythm, no reassuring thud of the heart we had spent five excruciating years trying to create. “Please, tell me you hear a heartbeat!”
The paramedic didn't look at me. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped under his skin. “Radio ahead to St. Jude’s Trauma and Obstetrics,” he commanded his partner up front. “Code Crimson! We have profound fetal bradycardia and signs of extensive internal hemorrhage. Have an OR prepped for emergent hysterotomy the second our tires hit the bay!”
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Mark buried his face in my palm, sobbing openly against my cold skin. I stared up at the vibrating roof of the ambulance, watching shadows dance across the rivets. The pain in my abdomen had turned from sharp agony into a terrifying, hollow numbness. My vision faded into dark static, and as the ambulance rounded a sharp corner, the world slipped entirely away.
***
