The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate (Jason and Laila) by Caroline Above Story novel Chapter 16

Laila's POV

The world tipped sideways.

Riley's words just kept looping in my skull, broken-record style, like the universe had picked the ugliest song and pressed repeat. Ava collapsed. Rushed to the hospital.

I don't remember dropping the phone. Don't remember shoving Jason back or cutting through that ballroom with eyes on me like I'd lost my damn mind. Next thing I knew I was in my car, tires screaming down the street, my heart hammering inside my chest like my ribs couldn't hold it in.

Collapsed. Resuscitated.

The words circled like vultures, each pass squeezing my lungs tighter. A noose, that's what it felt like. A slow, choking noose.

Not Ava. Please God, not my baby.

I knew her condition was slipping. Doctors had their polite way of saying it—cautiously optimistic, let's wait, let's schedule. But I saw it. I saw it in her face every morning, that ghost-pale look, that too-old exhaustion on a six-year-old.

I should've screamed at them sooner. I should've forced their hand. Should've ripped the red tape to shreds instead of nodding along with "assessments" and "timelines."

The parking garage blurred, lights streaking as I swerved. No spot? Fine. I ditched the car in a loading zone and ran, heels biting, lungs on fire.

The pediatric wing felt like it was on the other side of the damn planet.

"Ma'am—you can't—" a security guard tried, stepping into my path.

"My daughter," I gasped, still running, almost barreling him over. "Ava Morrison. Emergency surgery."

He stepped aside real quick. Smart man.

The elevator was torture. Every ding another eternity while my brain conjured the worst possible scenes: her little heart flatlining, machines failing, doctors shaking their heads.

When the doors finally opened, Riley was there. Mascara streaks, hair a mess, hands trembling. She looked wrecked. Which meant this was every bit as bad as I feared.

"Thank God," she sobbed, hugging me so tight it hurt. She smelled like disinfectant and terror. "They've been in there two hours."

"Two hours?" My legs just quit on me. Riley caught me before I collapsed, like how I had thought only actors ever did in movies. She dragged me into one of those plastic chairs hospitals bulk-ordered by the thousands.

"What happened?" My voice was thin. Shredded.

"She was just… playing. Laughing. Coloring those princess pages she loves. Then she just dropped." Riley's voice cracked. "The nurses said cardiac arrest."

Cardiac arrest. My six-year-old. My baby's heart stopped.

The guilt ripped me open. While she was fighting to breathe, I was dancing with Jason Bradshaw, smiling like some polished businesswoman, pretending my world wasn't already cracking apart.

"They got her back," Riley rushed, reading my face. "Her heart's beating again, but they had to rush her into surgery. The defect—something about repairing it before it happens again."

"How long?" I croaked.

"Three hours now."

I closed my eyes and prayed. Me. The girl who hadn't believed in anything since the night I packed my life into a duffel and ran. But desperation will drag prayers out of anyone.

Please. Take anything else. Just not her.

Four endless hours later, Dr. Martinez came out. Scrubs wrinkled, face worn, carrying that look doctors wear when they've got good news stapled to bad news.

"She's stable," he said first, thank God, and my body almost slid off the chair with relief. "We repaired the worst damage, but…"

There's always a but. Always.

"Her condition's more complicated. The defect isn't singular. Multiple components. Extra damage we missed before."

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify