The Ultimate Medical Romance Bundle

When your mother is in surgery, you discover that there are a thousand ways to pray, even if you don’t believe in any of them.

The lights in the hospital lobby just kept humming—broken only by the wheeze of distant machines.

I heard the sharp click of passing heels, and the slow tired breath of the automatic doors opening again and again.

I was pacing. Trying not to.

Trying to sit still like a “normal” daughter waiting on news of her mother’s surgery.

But the chairs were plastic and cold, and my legs had too much fear in them.

I remember thinking I should be calm. That calm would change something.

That if I could just fold my hands, breathe slower, the surgeons behind those double doors would work faster. Or better. Or just—something.

Instead, I was biting my nails, walking tight circles near the vending machine, when I noticed her.

A little girl. Alone. Standing by a potted plant that was fake and glossy, like everything in this place.

She was six, maybe seven, in a hoodie that was too big on her shoulders—with pink, glittery stars across the front—and at her feet sat a small lunchbox tipped on its side, with a Ziploc bag of grapes split open beside her that had scattered across the tile like marbles.

And she was gasping. Not making a sound.

Her mouth was open—but no air—and her hands clawed frantically at her neck, fingers fluttering like birds in a panic.

For half a second, I didn’t move. My brain was still catching up.

Then instinct took over.

I was on my knees, arms wrapping around her trembling frame as gently as I could, while her chest fluttered against me like a bird trying to escape a cage.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I whispered, though it wasn’t, not yet, not at all.

“Let me help you. I’ve got you.”

One hand into a fist, the other gripping it, I pulled up under her ribcage—once, twice.

And on the third thrust, the grape shot free with a slick, ugly pop, skittering across the tile and under the vending machine like a scene from a nightmare.

She collapsed and fell into my lap like something sacred had broken inside her, and I just—held her.

She was crying now. No sobs, just wet, shaky exhales against my shoulder.

Tiny arms wrapped around me like I’d always been there. My heart was a strobe light in my chest.

Then the doors opened.

The double OR doors. The ones I’d been watching.

The ones I’d forgotten completely.

And he walked out.

The surgeon.

I didn’t know he was her father at first—

Not until his gaze fell from me to her, and something inside him detonated.

“Ms. Cole,” he started, tugging off one glove, his tone clipped, surgical.

“Great news—your mo—”

He didn’t finish.

He saw her.

In my arms.

Her fingers still curled into my hoodie, her little pink sneaker dangling from my thigh.

His breath caught, barely visible, like he’d been sucker-punched.

“Why,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“—is my daughter crying in your arms?”

Time stuttered. The lobby disappeared. There was only him.

His gaze locked on mine like he was trying to read my soul in one look.

I tried to speak. I failed.

My arms tightened around her by reflex.

Because I wasn’t sure if I was holding her for her sake or for mine.

And I hadn’t even told him yet—

That I just saved her life.