Chapter 12 - The Sudden Collapse and the Terrifying Medical Truth Sloan Never Imagined
Sloan moved with the terrifying speed of a striking predator.
Before Delphine could hit the marble floor, his strong arms wrapped securely around her waist, catching her weight against his chest.
“Delphine!” Sloan shouted, his voice cracking with a raw, genuine panic that he hadn't felt even when facing his traitorous cousin an hour earlier.
“Get the private medic up here right now!” he roared toward the doorway where Bishop was standing.
“I’m… I’m fine,” Delphine breathed, her hand pressing against her forehead as she tried to push herself upright.
Her face had turned an alarming shade of pale chalk, and a cold sweat broke out across her temples.
“You are not fine. You’re freezing, and your pulse is erratic,” Sloan growled, sweeping her effortlessly into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.
He carried her past the marble bar toward the private master suite attached to the penthouse, kicking the double doors open with his boot.
He laid her gently down upon the sprawling, silk-sheets of the king-sized bed, his broad frame hovering over her like a protective shield.
Within three minutes, the building's private physician—an elderly, trusted man who had served the Marchetti family for decades—burst through the bedroom doors with a heavy medical kit.
“What happened, boss?” the doctor asked, panting slightly as he dropped to his knees beside the bed.
“She collapsed. Dizziness, sudden pallor, acute weakness,” Sloan snapped, his hand gripping the edge of the mattress so hard the wood groaned.
“Check her vitals. Now.”
The doctor opened his bag, pulled out a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff, and went to work with practiced efficiency.
He checked her heart rate, listened to her breathing, and gently pressed his fingers against her lower abdomen.
As the doctor’s fingers paused over her stomach, his expression shifted from clinical urgency to profound, stunned realization.
He looked up slowly from Delphine to Sloan.
“Mr. Marchetti…” the doctor began, his voice trembling slightly.
“What is it? Is she poisoned? Does she have an infection?” Sloan demanded, his voice rising in dangerous pitch.
“No, boss,” the doctor swallowed hard, a faint smile touching the corners of his weathered mouth.
“She isn't poisoned. Mrs. Marchetti is suffering from acute exhaustion combined with early-stage gestational hypoglycemia.”
The bedroom went dead silent.
The relentless sound of the rain outside seemed to fade into nothingness.
Sloan froze.
His large frame hovered over the bed like a statue carved from stone.
“Gestational…” Sloan repeated, the word tasting foreign and impossible on his tongue.
“Pregnancy, boss,” the doctor confirmed, packing away his stethoscope.
“She is roughly six months along. Given the stress, lack of proper nutrition, and fourteen-hour shifts standing on her feet at that restaurant, her blood sugar plummeted, causing the syncopal episode.”
Sloan slowly turned his head.
May you like
His steel-gray eyes locked onto Delphine’s pale, defiant face.
The secret she had carried hidden beneath her oversized waitress uniforms, loose sweaters, and flowing hair for half a year was finally out in the open.
