The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 242

The operating room doors slid shut silently behind Evelyn.

The brilliant glare of the surgical lights poured down, illuminating the entire space as if it were broad daylight. Evelyn snapped on her sterile gloves, her movements sharp and precise. Her gaze pierced through the layers of medical staff, landing on the pale woman lying in the center of the operating table.

It was Sebastian's mother.

Even unconscious and with an oxygen mask obscuring her face, the beautiful contours of her youth were still visible. Her hollowed cheeks, the elegant bridge of her nose, the long, curling eyelashes casting faint shadows on her skin—Sebastian's features mirrored hers flawlessly.

But right now, that beauty was shattered by the sheer agony of her illness. Her complexion was a terrifying, ashen gray, her lips tinged with cyanosis. Her chest barely rose and fell to the rhythm of the ventilator, every breath looking incredibly labored. The numbers on the monitor flickered dangerously: heart rate 130, oxygen saturation 85%, blood pressure 70/40.

"Dr. Rose," Dr. Wright hurried over, tension practically vibrating in his voice. "The ECMO is prepped and ready, but the patient's vascular condition is extremely poor. The puncture is going to be incredibly difficult..."

"I know," Evelyn replied, her tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "Hand me the vascular ultrasound."

A portable ultrasound machine was rolled to the side of the table. Evelyn took the probe and expertly glided it over Isabella's neck. The screen displayed the imagery of the carotid artery and the internal jugular vein—the vascular walls were thickened, the lumen narrowed. It was far from ideal.

"The right internal jugular vein is viable," she said, setting the probe aside. "Prepare for puncture."

The operating room instantly shifted into high gear. The anesthesiologist adjusted the ventilator settings, the nurse handed over the puncture kit, and the scrub tech cracked open the sterile packaging. Everyone held their breath.

Evelyn picked up the puncture needle. Her hands were rock steady; there wasn't even a microscopic tremor. Guided by the ultrasound, the needle tip pierced the skin with absolute precision, sliding directly into the blood vessel.

"Guidewire," she demanded, holding out her hand.

The wire fed smoothly through the needle, showing up perfectly clear on the monitor.

"Dilator."

"ECMO cannula."

Every single step was executed with flawless speed. Her voice remained impeccably level, entirely devoid of unnecessary chatter. Every command was razor-sharp. The medical staff fed off her momentum, the rhythm of the room growing tighter and more synchronized.

Fifteen minutes later, the ECMO cannula was successfully inserted.

"Initiate," Evelyn ordered.

The machine whirred to life, drawing the dark red blood through the tube, oxygenating it through the membrane lung, and slowly pumping it back into the body. On the monitor, her oxygen saturation slowly began to climb: 86%... 88%... 90%...

"Vitals are temporarily stabilizing," the anesthesiologist breathed a sigh of relief.

Minute by minute, the time ticked down.

Outside the window, the sky grew brighter. The morning sun filtered through the OR blinds, casting mottled shadows across the floor.

---

Outside the operating room.

Sebastian sat on the bench, his eyes locked dead onto the red light above the doors.

That glaring red light hung there like a guillotine suspended over his heart. He gripped his phone, the screen still displaying the academic resume Lance had sent him regarding Evelyn—hundreds of top-tier journal publications, dozens of patents, countless accolades. But right now, he didn't need titles. He needed a miracle.

Mrs. Cunningham sat beside him, praying silently.

The corridor was terrifyingly quiet, broken only by the faint, distant sounds of footsteps and rolling carts. Time felt infinitely stretched here; every single second felt like an agonizing year.

Sebastian remembered an afternoon from many years ago. He was still a little boy, and his mother was sitting in the garden, painting. The sunlight hit the side of her face, making her look impossibly gentle. She was painting roses, deep crimson ones, in full, vibrant bloom.

"Sebastian," she had told him back then. "Did you know? Roses might look delicate, but they have incredibly resilient life forces. Even when they're battered by wind and rain, as long as the roots survive, they will always bloom again."