Chapter 8 - The Turning Point
I rushed back to St. David’s Medical Center, feeling a massive weight lifted off my shoulders.
The corporate war was won. Now, all my energy could go where it belonged: to Maya and Leo.
But as I stepped off the elevator onto the maternity floor, the atmosphere had changed.
Nurses were moving rapidly. The quiet calm was replaced by a frantic, underlying tension.
I rounded the corner to Room 312, but Maya wasn't there.
Panic seized my throat.
I grabbed the nearest nurse. “Where is Maya Jensen? Where is my wife?”
The word 'wife' slipped out naturally, completely unfiltered.
“She’s in the NICU, Mr. Lawson,” the nurse said, her eyes filled with sympathy. “The baby took a bad turn.”
I didn't walk; I ran.
I pushed through the double doors of the NICU to find a nightmare unfolding.
Alarms were blaring—shrill, piercing sounds that tore through my sanity.
Dr. Rios and a team of nurses were huddled around Leo’s incubator, working frantically.
Maya was collapsed in a chair nearby, her face buried in her hands, her body shaking with violent sobs.
I rushed to her, falling to my knees and pulling her into my arms.
“What happened?” I begged, holding her tight. “Maya, what’s happening?”
“He stopped breathing,” she choked out, gripping my shirt like it was a lifeline. “Caleb, his lungs... he stopped breathing.”
I looked up at the incubator.
They had the lid open. Dr. Rios was performing tiny, two-finger chest compressions on my son’s fragile chest.
One, two, three, breathe.
The monitor showed a flat blue line.
Time stopped.
The millions of dollars, the company, the revenge on Victor—none of it meant a damn thing.
I was completely powerless.
“Come on, Leo,” Dr. Rios muttered, her brow drenched in sweat. “Come on, buddy.”
“Please,” I whispered, praying to any god that would listen. “Take everything. Take the company, take my life, just let him breathe.”
Maya wailed against my chest, a sound of absolute maternal agony.
One, two, three, breathe.
Silence.
Then, a small, sharp beep.
Then another.
The flat line on the monitor suddenly spiked into a jagged, beautiful peak.
Beep... beep... beep.
Dr. Rios stepped back, letting out a massive breath as the nurses quickly adjusted the oxygen mask.
“We have a pulse,” she announced, her voice shaking slightly. “He’s back. He’s stabilizing.”
Maya collapsed against me, the tension leaving her body so fast she would have fallen to the floor if I wasn't holding her.
Tears were pouring down my own face, mixing with hers.
I buried my face in her neck, holding my family together with everything I had.
“He’s a fighter,” I whispered to her, kissing her temple. “He’s a Lawson. He’s not going anywhere.”
We sat on the floor of the NICU for hours, holding each other, watching the steady rise and fall of our son’s chest.
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The trauma of the moment stripped away all the ego, all the past grievances, and all the misunderstandings between us.
In the face of losing him, we realized we could never lose each other again.
