Chapter 571
Chapter 571:
The monitor began to beep erratically, the lines jagged and chaotic.
“He’s in V-fib!” the medic shouted. “Start compressions! Get the epinephrine p>
The medic began pumping Liam’s chest hard. “One, two, three, four p>
Skye watched Liam’s body jerk with each compression.
Please, she prayed to a universe that had given her a second chance. Don’t let his redemption be his death.
“Still in V-fib,” the medic yelled. “Charging paddles! Clear p>
Thump.
Skye watched Liam’s body arch off the gurney as the electricity coursed through him.
The rain drummed on the roof of the ambulance, sounding like a thousand fingers tapping a countdown. Skye squeezed Liam’s lifeless hand.
“Come back,” she whispered. “Come back p>
“Clear p>
The shout was followed by the sharp, guttural thump of the defibrillator pads discharging. In the cramped, rain-battered ambulance, Liam’s body arched violently off the gurney, a macabre puppet jerked by invisible strings.
Skye screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, raw and desperate. “Don’t you dare! Liam p>
The monitor whined a single, flat tone, the sound of a life ending.
“Charging again!” the paramedic yelled, sweat dripping from his nose onto Liam’s gray, motionless chest. “Three hundred joules! Clear p>
Another body-shaking jolt. The smell of ozone and burnt skin filled the small space.
Skye gripped his hand, her knuckles white, her fingernails digging into his cold flesh. Come back. You don’t get to die a hero. Not yet.
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Then, beep.
A ragged pause.
Beep… beep…
𝗥ea𝖽𝖾𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗆𝗆uո𝗂𝗍y оn 𝘣𝗲𝗅ո𝗈𝗏𝗲𝗹s.𝖼𝘰𝘮
The rhythm was weak, chaotic, fluttering like a trapped bird, but it was there.
“We have a pulse,” the medic breathed, slumping back. “It’s thready, but we have a pulse p>
Skye collapsed against the metal wall of the ambulance, a sob breaking out of her chest.
Three days later.
The crystal flutes didn’t clink; they sang. That was the specific frequency of wealth, a high, resonant hum that vibrated through the soles of Skye Sterling’s silver heels as she stood on the terrace of the Thorne private estate.
Inside, the ballroom was a kaleidoscope of soft amber light and expensive perfume. Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the ocean. It was perfect, but it was a fabricated perfection, a stage set built over a graveyard.
She smoothed the fabric of her dress. It was a column of liquid silver, heavy with hand-beaded tassels that swayed with her slightest breath. Her hand trembled slightly, a phantom echo of the terror she had felt seventy-two hours ago in the sterile white light of the ICU.
“You’re doing it again,” a voice rumbled near her ear.
Alistair Thorne stepped out from the shadows of the archway. He didn’t look at the party; he looked at her. His tuxedo was midnight blue, cut sharp enough to draw blood, but his eyes were warm, shadowed by the same vigilance that kept her awake at night.