Chapter 3

The rain drummed against the hospital windows as I raced through Manhattan General's stark corridors, my footsteps echoing off the cold marble floors. Billy's temperature had climbed a bit again, and I was running out of time.

"Please, is there any doctor available?" My voice cracked as I reached the seventh office I'd tried in the past half hour. Empty, like all the others.

How ridiculous! The entire medical staff had been summoned to the 18th floor for Isabella Scott's 'emergency', even the nurses whispered about it. How she'd demanded every available physician be present for her routine physical, how she'd had the entire floor cleared for privacy.

My hands trembled as I checked my phone again. No missed calls from Henry. Of course not. He was up there with Isabella, probably still cradling her in his arms like she was made of porcelain.

I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the deserted hallway. Seven floors, I'd searched seven floors, and not a single doctor was available to help my son.

"Think, Sophia," I muttered to myself. "There has to be someone..."

Lost in desperation, I rounded the corner at full speed, and slammed straight into someone's chest.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking..." I started to apologize, stepping back.

"Sophia?!"

Instantly, I looked up, meeting a pair of familiar warm brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

"Sanders?" I gasped in surprise.

Thomas Sanders stood before me, his white coat slightly rumpled, a patient chart in his hands, and a sign reading 'Chief of Internal Medicine' hung on his chest. He looked older than I remembered, but his gentle expression hadn't changed.

"What are you doing here at this hour?" he asked, then noticed my tear-stained face. "Sophia, what's wrong?"

I grabbed his arm. "No time to explain. Please, just come with me!"

After hearing my words, Thomas didn't hesitate. He followed as I practically dragged him toward Billy's room. My words tumbling out in a desperate rush, "High fever... seizures... no doctor available..."

The moment we entered room 1630, Thomas transformed from my old medical school friend into the consummate professional. He checked Billy's vitals, his movements swift and precise.

"How long has his temperature been this high?"

"About half an hour," I managed. "Everyone's been called to the 18th floor for..."

"For Isabella Scott's physical," Thomas finished, his jaw tightening. "I heard about that circus." He administered an injection with practiced ease. "This should help bring down the fever, but we need to do more. Come with me."

He scooped Billy into his arms and said, "There's a fitness center in the basement. Sometimes with severe fevers, controlled exercise can help induce sweating and break the fever faster."

I followed him to the elevator, watching as he spoke softly to Billy, explaining everything he was doing in terms a five-year-old could understand. Billy's eyes were glazed with fever, but he managed a weak smile at Thomas's gentle words.

The basement gym was deserted at this hour. Thomas guided us through a series of gentle exercises, keeping constant watch on Billy's vital signs. Gradually, mercifully, the fever began to break.

"You're doing great, champ," Thomas praised as Billy's temperature finally dropped below 103. "You're much braver than I was at your age. When I had my tonsils out, I cried for a week."

Billy giggled weakly. "Really? But you're a doctor!"

"That's right. And you know what? The bravest patients make the best doctors."

I watched their interaction, something aching in my chest. In the five years since Billy was born, I'd never seen him connect with a male figure like this. Henry had made sure of that.

Henry, the thought of him sent my mind spinning back five years, to another rainy night...

I became Mrs. Henry Harding without fanfare or celebration. No wedding, no congratulations, not even a formal announcement. Just a quiet ceremony at the courthouse, witnessed by lawyers and notaries.

I knew Thomas had waited outside the Harding Estate that day, probably for hours in the rain. I'd seen his car from my window but couldn't bring myself to face him. What could I have said? That I was marrying into one of New York's most powerful families because of a business arrangement? That the man I was marrying loved someone else?

The name 'Isabella Scott' was forbidden in the Harding household. I learned that lesson the hard way, three months into my marriage. I'd been exploring Henry's private study, a room I'd later be banned from entering, when I found a photograph.

It was tucked into a leather-bound volume of Keats, Isabella in a white sundress, laughing at something beyond the camera's frame. The way the picture was worn at the edges spoke of frequent handling.

Henry's rage when he found me with the photo still haunts me. It was the only time I'd seen him lose his perfect control, his gray eyes blazing as he ordered me out. "Never enter this room again," he'd commanded. "Never touch my things. Never speak her name."

I obeyed. What else could I do? I was already pregnant with Billy by then, though I hadn't told anyone yet. And Thomas... Thomas had already left for Cambridge, pushed by his family to pursue his medical doctorate abroad. He never knew about my feelings, never knew I'd read every one of his letters until they stopped coming.

"Sophia?" Thomas's voice pulled me back to the present. Billy had fallen into an exhausted sleep on one of the gym mats, his breathing finally even and regular.

"Thank you, Thomas," I whispered. "If I hadn't run into you tonight..."

"Where's Henry?" he asked quietly. "Why isn't he here with his sick son?"

I tried to smile, to make excuses. "He's working late, he couldn't..."

"Sophia." Thomas's voice was gentle but firm. "You were never good at lying. I saw him earlier, you know. Everyone did. He was carrying Isabella Scott through the lobby like she was the most precious thing in the world."

The truth of his words hit me like a physical blow. Five years of pretense, of making excuses, of telling myself things would change – all of it crumbled under the weight of this night.

"Is this the marriage you wanted, Sophia?" Thomas asked softly. "Is this the life you chose when you walked away that day?"

I looked at my sleeping son, so vulnerable and trusting. Then at Thomas, who had helped us without hesitation. And finally, toward the ceiling, where somewhere above us, Henry was probably still attending to Isabella's every whim.

The answer stuck in my throat, bitter as medicine. 'No, this isn't what I wanted at all.' I could only say it in my mind.