A Woman Worth Billions Dated the Wrong Brother novel Chapter 425

The Boys

Jason POV

The moment Emory confirmed aconite in Amber’s food, my thoughts went to the babies.

“Check the boys.”

Emory looked up from the tablet in his hands. “They’re already being monitored.”

“That’s not what I said.” I tightened my grip on the arms of the wheelchair. “If Amber ate it while they were still inside her, then they were exposed too. Check them specifically for this.”

His expression softened slightly, but he didn’t argue.

“I’ll speak to neonatology.”

“No. You’ll make sure they check.”

“I will.”

The twins had been stable since the emergency delivery. Their heart rates had normalized, their oxygen levels were good, and nobody had found evidence of lasting injury from whatever Amber had been given. Until now, that had been enough to let me breathe a little easier.

Now we knew there had been three substances in her food.

A powerful sedative.

Botulinum toxin.

Aconite.

Suddenly, every reassurance I’d received about my sons felt incomplete.

I looked through the glass at Amber while Emory called the neonatal unit. She remained unconscious, the ventilator continuing its steady rhythm beside her. Somewhere else in the same hospital were two little boys who didn’t even have names yet because I had refused to name them without their mother.

They had already survived being cut from her body while she lay unconscious.

I wasn’t going to assume they had escaped the poisoning simply because they looked healthy.

Emory returned less than twenty minutes later.

“They’re evaluating both boys again.”

“What does that mean?”

“Full examination, continuous cardiac monitoring, ECGs, repeat blood work and review of everything recorded since delivery. Toxicology is also discussing what specimens are available for targeted testing.”

“Are they showing symptoms?”

“No.”

That single word loosened something in my chest.

Emory pulled a chair closer. “Jason, that’s important. Neither baby is showing the kind of cardiovascular

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instability we’re worried about with significant aconite toxicity. Their heart rates are appropriate, their blood pressure is good, their oxygenation is good, and there haven’t been concerning rhythm abnormalities.”

“But that doesn’t prove they weren’t exposed.”

“No. It tells us they’re clinically doing well.”

I nodded slowly.

For once I accepted the distinction.

Mr. Asher had been standing near the window listening. “Can the toxin cross the placenta?”

“Potential fetal exposure is one of the reasons we’re taking it seriously,” Emory said. “But we don’t have evidence right now that either boy suffered clinically significant aconite poisoning.”

I looked back toward the hallway leading to neonatal care.

“I want to see them.”

“As soon as we’re done here.”

“What’s more important than that?”

“My phone call.”

I frowned.

Emory lifted his phone. “I found someone.”

That got my attention.

He had spent the last several hours contacting medical toxicologists and specialists while the hospital continued testing Amber’s samples. Apparently, one of the physicians he’d reached had experience with aconite poisoning and had agreed to review Amber’s case directly with the ICU and cardiology teams.

The consultation lasted almost an hour.

I hated every minute of it.

When Emory finally returned, he wasn’t smiling, but something had changed in his face. For the first time since Amber’s condition had deteriorated, he didn’t look like a man trying to solve a problem while the building burned around him.

He looked like he had a plan.

“Talk.”

“The specialist reviewed her telemetry, ECGs, blood pressure trends, laboratory results, estimated timeline and the toxicology findings.”

“And?”

“He doesn’t think the aconite component of her poisoning is severe.”

I stared at him.

“Say that again.”

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“He does not think she has severe aconite toxicity.”

Nooked at Amber, then back at him. “She’s on a ventilator.”

“Because she has confirmed botulism and significant neuromuscular weakness,” Emory reminded me. “Those are separate problems. Amber is still critically ill. I’m not minimizing that. But the question we asked him was how much of what we’re seeing appears to be driven by aconite.”

“And?”

“So far, she hasn’t developed the kind of sustained malignant ventricular arrhythmias or refractory cardiovascular collapse we’d expect in the most severe aconite poisonings. She has had blood-pressure instability and some rhythm abnormalities, which we’re taking seriously, but the specialist believes those are manageable.”

Hope was a dangerous thing.

I’d learned that repeatedly over the last few weeks.

Still, I felt it.

“Then she can recover from it?”

“Yes. There is reason to believe she can.”

Mr. Asher lowered himself into the chair beside me.

“Treatment?” he asked.

Emory nodded. “There still isn’t a specific antidote. We’re treating the patient, not trying to neutralize the toxin with a drug that doesn’t exist. Cardiology and toxicology are adjusting the monitoring plan. We’ll correct anything that increases electrical instability, support her blood pressure as necessary, and treat any significant arrhythmia according to what actually appears rather than throwing medications at her prophylactically.”

“So you wait?” I asked.

“We monitor aggressively and intervene when indicated,” Emory corrected. “With aconite, supportive care matters because the body has to metabolize and eliminate the toxin. Our job is to keep her heart and circulation functioning safely while that happens.”

He looked toward the monitors.

“The encouraging part is timing.”

“What about it?”

“If her exposure happened with that meal, then we’re already hours into this. Severe aconite poisoning usually declares itself early. That doesn’t mean we stop watching her, especially given everything else going on, but the fact that she hasn’t developed persistent catastrophic arrhythmias is reassuring.”

I swallowed.

It wasn’t a guarantee.

Nothing involving Amber seemed to come with guarantees anymore.

But it was the first genuinely good thing anyone had told me since she’d collapsed.

Emory’s phone rang again. He answered, listened for several seconds and then looked at me.

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“Neonatology.”

My heart immediately started pounding.

He listened a little longer.

Then he smiled.

Not the careful expression doctors used when they were trying not to frighten families.

An actual smile.

“The boys are fine.”

I couldn’t speak.

“Their examinations are reassuring. ECGs look good. No concerning rhythm disturbances, no cardiovascular instability and nothing clinically suggesting significant aconite toxicity. They’ll continue monitoring them because of the circumstances, but right now, both boys are doing well.”

I closed my eyes.

Two boys.

Two tiny, unnamed boys who had survived everything someone had done to their mother.