Chapter 2 - THE EIGHT HOURS I FOUGHT FOR A MAN WHO WASN'T MY FATHER
At 12:43 a.m., Marcus Keller looked me in the eyes and asked a question that had nothing to do with Preston.
"Althia, are you physically capable of assisting tonight?"
I appreciated him for asking.
I'd crossed the Atlantic.
Barely slept.
Discovered my fiancé had married my best friend.
And walked directly into one of the most dangerous cardiac emergencies a surgeon could face.
My emotions didn't change the medical emergency.
But they couldn't be allowed to compromise Richard's care either.
"I slept part of the flight," I answered. "I've eaten, and I can participate. But you're leading, Marcus. If you have any concerns about my fitness, I step out."
He nodded.
"We have another senior surgeon available as well."
"Good."
He studied me.
"Are you certain you want to do this?"
I looked through the glass toward Richard.
His skin was pale.
His breathing shallow.
Even with careful monitoring and treatment, the danger remained enormous.
Type A aortic dissection could progress catastrophically.
The team was ready to operate without me if necessary.
My presence was additional expertise.
Not a reason to delay.
"He's my patient tonight," I said.
Marcus nodded.
"Then that's where we keep our attention."
For a moment, I almost cried.
Not because his words were comforting.
Because they gave me something Preston had taken away.
A place where my judgment mattered.
A room where my worth wasn't determined by whether a man wanted to marry me.
And a responsibility I could fulfill without pretending my heart wasn't broken.
---
The operating room was already prepared.
Perfusion staff checked the heart-lung machine.
Anesthesia reviewed the plan.
Blood products were available.
The surgical team discussed the anatomy, anticipated complications, and strategies for protecting the brain and other organs during the repair.
Marcus would serve as the primary surgeon.
I would assist with the complex aortic reconstruction as appropriate.
Another experienced surgeon remained available.
Everyone had a role.
Everyone understood the risks.
I changed into scrubs.
Scrubbed my hands.
Put on my gown.
Then looked toward Richard.
For one moment, I didn't see the wealthy founder whose name appeared across the hospital entrance.
I saw the man who taught me how to make his late wife's favorite lemon cake.
The man who insisted I call him Richard rather than Mr. Sterling.
The man who sat beside me after my mother's funeral and said:
"Althia, you don't have to become my daughter through marriage. You're already family to me."
My eyes burned.
I blinked the tears away.
Then stepped toward the operating table.
"All right," Marcus said.
"Let's begin."
---
The next several hours blurred into concentrated work.
The damaged ascending aorta required urgent repair.
The dissection extended toward the arch, complicating the operation.
The team established cardiopulmonary bypass.
They protected Richard's circulation according to the operative plan.
Then began the difficult process of replacing the diseased segment and restoring stable blood flow.
Every step mattered.
The tissue was fragile.
The anatomy unforgiving.
The margin for error frighteningly small.
I had performed complex aortic operations before.
Hundreds of patients had entrusted their lives to surgical teams I led or assisted.
But Richard was different.
I knew how he took his coffee.
I knew his favorite baseball team.
I knew he had kept every birthday card Preston made as a child.
Now I stood beside the operating table trying not to think about how empty his house would feel if he never returned.
At one point, significant bleeding complicated the repair.
The team worked to control it.
Marcus remained steady.
I assisted with the reconstruction.
Nobody raised their voice unnecessarily.
Nobody allowed panic to replace judgment.
Then the bleeding came under better control.
The repair was completed.
Circulation was reestablished.
The team assessed the result.
And gradually, the situation stabilized enough for Richard to be transferred toward postoperative intensive care.
He wasn't out of danger.
There were risks of stroke.
Bleeding.
Kidney injury.
Infection.
And other serious complications.
But he had survived the operation.
When Marcus finally stepped away from the table, his eyes met mine.
"We have a chance," he said quietly.
I nodded.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then my hands began shaking.
Not during the most difficult steps.
Not while the team needed me.
Afterward.
When the work was done and the terror finally had somewhere to go.
I turned away.
Marcus touched my shoulder.
"Althia."
I swallowed.
"He's alive."
"Yes."
My eyes filled.
"He's alive."
And then I began crying.
---
At 8:26 a.m., I walked into the surgical family consultation room.
Preston stood immediately.
Cecily rose beside him.
His expression was desperate.
"Althia?"
I stopped.
For years, Preston had been the first person I wanted to see after a difficult operation.
I used to tell him about the long hours.
The exhaustion.
The relief.
Sometimes he'd bring me breakfast and kiss my forehead.
Now he stood beside his legal wife.
The woman who had helped plan our wedding.
I took a breath.
"Richard survived surgery."
Preston's knees seemed to weaken.
He grabbed the back of a chair.
"Oh, God."
I continued.
"The repair was completed, but his condition remains critical. He needs close intensive-care monitoring, and the next several days will be important."
Preston covered his face.
Then began crying.
For a moment, I remembered loving him.
Remembered the evenings we spent discussing our future.
The house we wanted.
The children we hoped to have someday.
I felt grief rise in my throat.
But I remained professional.
"Marcus will be coordinating postoperative updates through the appropriate clinical channels."
Preston nodded rapidly.
Then stepped toward me.
"Althia, thank you."
I didn't move.
He reached for my hand.
I stepped back.
His expression changed.
For the first time, he seemed to remember that we were no longer the couple he'd pretended we were.
"Althia..."
I looked directly at him.
"Your father is alive."
His eyes filled.
"Yes."
"And he deserves time to recover without becoming responsible for your secrets."
Preston swallowed.
"Please."
I glanced toward Cecily.
She stood several feet away.
Her gold wedding band caught the fluorescent light.
Then I looked back at Preston.
"I've done my job."
He nodded.
"Of course."
I took a breath.
"Now you need to begin doing something you've avoided for months."
His expression tightened.
"What?"
"Tell the truth."
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then Cecily stepped forward.
"Althia, can we please talk privately?"
I stared at her.
My best friend.
The woman who held my mother's wedding dress while I cried.
The woman who helped me choose ivory roses.
The woman who secretly married my fiancé while I was in Paris learning how to save more patients like Richard.
I looked at her wedding ring.
Then answered:
"No."
Her face crumpled.
I continued.
"I have been awake for far too long, and I've just assisted in a major emergency operation."
I looked between them.
"I am going home to rest."
Preston stepped forward.
"Can I come with you?"
For a moment, I almost laughed.
Then I held his gaze.
"Preston, you have a wife."
His face went white.
I glanced at Cecily.
"Take care of your marriage."
Then I walked out.
---
I reached the staff changing room.
Closed the door.
And finally stopped pretending I was strong.
I sat on a wooden bench.
Removed my surgical cap.
Then stared at the pale indentation on my finger where my engagement ring had rested for fourteen months.
I had taken it off in an airport restroom.
Now it lay inside a small velvet pouch in my handbag.
I looked at my bare hand.
For a moment, I imagined October.
The church.
The flowers.
The dress my mother had worn.
Preston waiting at the altar.
Cecily standing beside me as maid of honor.
Then the image changed.
Greenwich Town Hall.
A navy suit.
A gold wedding band.
A marriage certificate.
I covered my mouth.
And sobbed.
Not because I'd failed to save Richard.
He had survived.
Not because I wanted Preston back.
I didn't.
I cried because two people who knew me better than almost anyone had spent months building a future that required me to remain unaware.
And they had smiled at me while doing it.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Marcus.
"Richard is stable in the ICU for now. Go home and sleep. We'll take it from here."
I wiped my eyes.
Then another message appeared.
From an unfamiliar number.
"Dr. Morgan, this is Eleanor Price from Sterling Family Foundation compliance. We need to discuss a document issued in your name before the emergency. Please call when you are able."
I stared.
A document.
In my name.
For a moment, I assumed it concerned Richard's medical care.
Then I noticed the attached subject line.
STERLING AORTIC RESPONSE INITIATIVE — MEDICAL ENDORSEMENT.
My stomach tightened.
May you like
Because I'd never endorsed any initiative through the Sterling Family Foundation.
And suddenly, Preston's wedding wasn't the only secret waiting for me when I returned from Paris.
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