The Secret Billionaire Heiress Strikes Back

Chapter 10 The efficiency with which the hospital staff sprang into action was remarkable. Within minutes, Ravyn found herself being escorted down a different corridor-this one noticeably nicer, with actual artwork on the walls and soft lighting instead of harsh fluorescents-toward what Dr. Shawn had called the VIP suites. Dante walked beside her, his expression stunned. "I can't believe this is happening," he murmured. "Twenty minutes ago they wouldn't even look at him without a deposit, and now they're assembling a team of specialists?" "Whisper_119 carries weight in certain circles," Ravyn said quietly. "Dr. Shawn knows that identity has access to information that could make or break careers, reveal or bury secrets. He also knows that Whisper_119 has a reputation for being fair-only using that information when absolutely necessary, and only against people who actually deserve it." "But you don't do that anymore," Dante said. "You haven't been Whisper_119 in two years." "He doesn't know that," Ravyn replied. "And I'm not going to tell him. Right now, he thinks he's staying on the good side of someone who could ruin him if she chose to. That fear-combined with genuine gratitude for what I did for him three years ago-is what's motivating him to help." They reached VIP suite three just as a team of nurses was wheeling a bed through the door. Ravyn's heart seized in her chest as she caught sight of her son. Rhysand looked so small in the hospital bed, almost swallowed by the white sheets and the bulk of medical equipment surrounding him. His light brown skin had an unhealthy gray tinge, and his chest rose and fall with more effort than it should require. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and an IV line ran into his small arm, secured with what looked like three times the normal amount of tape to ensure he couldn't accidentally dislodge it. But his eyes-his beautiful brown eyes that had inherited her determination and something of his unknown father's intensity-were open and tracked to her immediately as she entered the room. "Mama," he said, his voice muffled by the mask but clear enough to make Ravyn's heart break and heal simultaneously. She was at his bedside in an instant, her hand finding his and squeezing gently. "I'm here, baby. I'm right here. You're going to be fine. The doctors are going to make you all better." "Couldn't breathe," Rhysand said, his eyes wide with the kind of fear that no five-year-old should have to experience. "Scared." "I know you were," Ravyn said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "But you're safe now. You're in the hospital, and they're taking very good care of you." A nurse-younger than the one at the admissions desk, with kind eyes and gentle hands-was busy setting up monitoring equipment. "Hi there, brave boy," she said to Rhysand with a warm smile. "My name is Jennifer, and I'm going to be your nurse tonight. Can you tell me how you're feeling?" "Sleepy," Rhysand said. "And my chest hurts." "That's because you've been coughing a lot," Jennifer explained, checking the oxygen monitor. "But we're giving you medicine to help with that. You just rest, okay? And if you need anything at all, you just press this button." She placed a call button next to his hand. "It's like a magic button that makes nurses appear." Despite everything, Rhysand managed a small smile at that. "Magic?" "Super magic," Jennifer confirmed. "I've never seen it not work." Dr. Shawn entered the room, followed by the young resident from earlier and another doctor Ravyn didn't recognize. "Rhysand," he said, his professional demeanor softening as he approached the bed. "I'm Dr. Shawn. How are you feeling, buddy?" "Tired," Rhysand said. Then, with the brutal honesty of children, "Are you going to make it hurt?" "I'm going to do everything I can to make sure nothing hurts," Dr. Shawn promised. "We might need to do a few tests, but they won't hurt-they'll just feel a little weird, okay? And if anything does hurt, you tell me right away, and we'll stop." He turned to Ravyn, his voice lowering. "The good news is that his oxygen saturation has improved significantly since he arrived. Whatever caused the initial reaction seems to be dissipating. But I still want the full workup to make sure we understand what triggered this and prevent it from happening again." "Thank you," Ravyn said, the words inadequate for the relief and gratitude flooding through her. "Don't thank me yet," Dr. Shawn said. "Thank me when we have answers and your son is breathing normally again." Over the next hour, the VIP suite became something of a command center. The specialists Dr. Shawn had summoned began arriving, each looking slightly disheveled from being pulled away from their Saturday evening plans but too professional to complain. Dr. Martinez, the pediatric pulmonologist, was a short, energetic woman in her fifties who had Rhysand laughing despite his discomfort within minutes of meeting him. Dr. Singh, the allergy specialist, was younger and more reserved but thorough in his questioning about what Rhysand had eaten, touched, or been exposed to in the hours before the attack. Dr. Patterson, the pediatrician, had the kind of gentle manner that made children instinctively trust him. He sat on the edge of Rhysand's bed, chatting about dinosaurs and superheroes while simultaneously conducting a comprehensive examination. Ravyn answered their questions as completely as she could, though she had to be careful. These doctors naturally assumed Dante was Rhysand's father-he'd been the one to bring Rhysand in, after all, and there was an obvious affection between them that could be read as paternal. She didn't correct this assumption. It was safer for everyone if people believed Dante was Rhysand's father. Safer for Rhysand, certainly, but also safer for Ravyn. If word got back to the Hawkins family that she had a five-year-old son-a son whose age lined up perfectly with her time in prison-they would start asking questions she couldn't afford to answer. Questions about who the father was. Questions about how she'd hidden a pregnancy and birth while incarcerated. Questions about why she'd kept the child's existence secret. Questions that might lead to the truth: that Rhysand's conception hadn't been a consensual act of love, but rather the result of one of the many assaults she'd endured during her imprisonment. That she'd carried that trauma to term because despite everything, she'd wanted her child. That she'd given birth to twins in secret with only Dante and a trusted prison doctor to help her, then placed her remaining newborn son in Dante's care until her release. The Hawkins family would see Rhysand as evidence of her victimhood-proof that she'd suffered in ways that might generate unwanted sympathy or, worse, questions about what really happened during her imprisonment. They would see him as a loose end that needed to be tied up, a scandal that needed to be buried. So Dante played the role of father, and Ravyn let him, even though every instinct screamed that she should be acknowledged as this child's mother. "Dad," Rhysand said at one point, reaching for Dante with his free hand. "Tummy hurts." Dante moved immediately to his other side, taking the small hand in his larger one. "I know, buddy. The doctors are going to figure out what made you sick, okay? And then we'll make sure it never happens again." Dr. Singh looked up from the tablet he'd been making notes on. "What did Rhysand have for dinner tonight?" "Spaghetti with marinara sauce," Dante said. "Same recipe I've made a dozen times before. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, olive oil, basil. Nothing exotic or unusual." "And for lunch?" "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Ravyn supplied, then stopped, her heart dropping to her stomach. "Oh my God. Peanut butter." Dr. Singh's eyes sharpened. "Has he eaten peanut butter before?" "I..." Ravyn struggled to remember. She'd only been out of prison for two days. Before that, Dante had been managing Rhysand's care alone. "Dante?" Dante's face had gone pale. "I don't know. I've been so careful about introducing common allergens slowly, like the pediatrician recommended. But I've been making him peanut butter sandwiches for the past month, and he's been fine. No reactions at all."