Damian's Point of View
The city lights blurred into streaks as I sped the car toward St. Jude's Medical Center. My knuckles bled from gripping the steering wheel; each red light felt like a betrayal of time I couldn't afford to lose.
"Sophia?" I rasped, already dialing her number. No answer—just voicemail. My phone slipped from my hand as the car jolted over a pothole. My heart pounded like thunder in my ears. If Rachel had hurt Sophia… I didn't even want to imagine it.
Ava's hand on my arm jolted me back. "Damian, breathe," she urged, voice trembling. She steered my gaze to the dashboard—98, 102, 88—my pulse racing. "What happened?" she asked, eyes wide with panic.
I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. "I don't know, but she sounded terrified." Sirens wailed in the distance as we pulled up to the emergency entrance. Parking the car on the curb, we sprinted inside.
Hospital Corridor
Fluorescent lights illuminated the sterile hallway as we ran past reception. I barreled toward triage; nurses barely glanced at me. I caught sight of Sophia's name on the board—Room 314. My heart lodged in my throat.
A curtain parted. The nurse outside Room 314 looked up, her expression guarded. "Mr. Cross, Ms. Blackwood, I… I'm sorry. She's in critical condition. Internal bleeding. We stabilized her, but—" Her words cut off as she glanced at me, fear in her eyes.
"Can I see her?" I asked, voice thick. She hesitated, then led us in.
Sophia's Room
Sophia lay hooked to monitors, her face pallid beneath the stark hospital light. A bruise bloomed across her temple, and a thin line of blood trailed from her nostril. Her hand, limp at her side, once held mine in every crisis. Now she was drifting in and out of consciousness.
I took her hand, his—her—warmth colder than steel. Ava pressed close, eyes brimming. "Sophia," she whispered. "Can you hear us?"
A flicker of movement—Sophia's eyelids fluttered. Recognition dawned in her eyes, but then panic. She tried to speak, but only a soft moan emerged.
"Talk to me," I urged, voice cracking. But she closed her eyes, drifting away again.
The monitor beeped irregularly. A nurse rushed in, pressing a button. "We need to operate immediately. Internal hemorrhage—likely a ruptured spleen."
"No!" I choked, but the doctor shook his head. "You have to consent."
My vision narrowed. Consent. Consent. In that moment, I realized I could lose her.
Operating Theater
Ava squeezed my hand once before they whisked Sophia away. Time slowed to an excruciating crawl. Each minute felt like hours. And in those hours, I would have given anything to trade places with her—anything to spare her pain.
At last, the surgeon emerged. His eyes were tired but calm. "Mr. Cross, Ms. Blackwood—she's stable for now. The bleeding was severe, but we controlled it. She'll need rest and observation, but… she pulled through."
Relief flooded me, but it was tempered by dread. Rachel's message had been delivered. Now, she'd shown she wasn't afraid to use violence. If she'd hurt Sophia…
I turned to Ava, voice low and cold. "We need to find her. Now."
Rachel's Point of View
They thought they were safe in their little hospital haven. I watched from a distance—my offer to visit "as a concerned acquaintance" deliberately declined. Such precious dysfunction, all laid bare beneath harsh hospital lights.
Sophia's surgery was the perfect distraction. While Damian rushed to her side, Ava's guard was down—too focused on their friend's survival. And that was when I struck.
I slipped into the empty gift-shop corridor, moving with practiced stealth. The switch inside my cufflinks—silver, unassuming—clicked twice, and the door unlocked. Inside was a small office with security monitors. I tapped a screen. Live feed: the children's ward.
Liam's face swam across the screen, trailing behind a nurse's cart. My lips curved into a smile. He was alone—unescorted—heading back to his room.
I turned away, calling softly, "Goodnight, Liam." Then I sent the feed to my phone with a single text to Damian: "Now the real storms begins."
Ava's Point of View
Back in the waiting room, I waited for Damian's verdict. His eyes were dark hollows when he returned. He sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands.
"Sophia's okay," he said, exhaling shakily. "She's going to live."
Tears streamed down my face. Relief warred with something darker—an uneasy weight pressing at my core. "Thank God."
He nodded, but his gaze darted past me. "Something's wrong."
"What do you mean?"
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then looked at me. "It's a video."
My blood ran cold. Damian opened the message, and I glimpsed a grainy shot of Liam in his little hospital gown, walking down an empty hallway.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
Damian's hand tightened around mine. "They're moving him."
Frantic, he lunged for his phone, calling Olivia. No answer. "He's not where he should be," he muttered. "They're on the kids' floor."
We bolted from the waiting area. Nurses and visitors scattered as Damian barreled down the corridor.
Hospital Hallway
"Liam!" Ava called, voice cracking. But only emptiness answered.
We reached the elevator and tore through each floor. On the third level—pediatrics—chaos reigned. Security guards cordoned off hallways. Nurses clustered in doorways, eyes wide.
"Excuse me!" I yelled, grabbing a nurse. "My son—he's missing!"
She pointed. "He was here ten minutes ago. Then… gone."
My heart stopped.
Damian's face twisted with fear and fury. He scanned faces, searching.
Then he saw it: an envelope taped to the glass by the play area. He yanked it down, ripping it open.
Inside: a single Polaroid of Liam in his pajamas, terrified, hugging a teddy bear—and a message scrawled in dark red ink:
"Find him before the storm breaks."
The world tilted.
A storm had already broken.
And this time, it wasn't just our hearts on the line.
It was our son's life.