Chapter 2: Abandoned in the ER

I didn’t faint. If you grow up without family, you don’t get to faint. You stay awake, or you get left behind.

"Do you have any family?" The young nurse’s Staten Island accent was gentle as she offered the surgical consent form.

"I’ll do it myself." My hands shook as I signed—Rachel Chen, the name I chose at eighteen. Blood crusted under my nails.

"Can I borrow a charger? My phone’s dead." I needed to call someone—anyone—just to make sure the world noticed I existed.

In my haze, I caught snippets: only one OR left, hospital packed—classic Friday night in Manhattan.

"There’s a pregnant woman here! Let her go first!" A resident was arguing for me.

But Nathan’s voice cut through again, all legal thunder. "This patient just had major heart surgery! She’s in more danger—let her go first!"

The doctor hesitated, caught between medicine and lawsuits.

"But this pregnant woman is also in great danger..."

Nathan swooped in, business card flashing. "I’m her lawyer. She just had major heart surgery overseas. If you delay, I’ll sue."

He was already texting, probably alerting his partners at Reeves, Hamilton & Associates.

A nurse muttered in Spanish, then English. "Rich people think they’re so great! They’re the ones who hit someone!"

Another nurse, Irish-accented, snorted. "Exactly! Not only do they steal the ambulance but also the OR. Afraid their scratches will heal if they wait?"

The head nurse glared them down, but I saw one discreetly recording on her phone.

The hospital director arrived in Ferragamo shoes, grabbed Nathan’s hand, and led him aside, all deference. "Mr. Reeves, we’ll do everything for your wife!" He knew Nathan from galas and headlines.

Nathan let the lie stand.

I squeezed my eyes shut and called out, "Nathan Reeves!"

But his first love whimpered—"Nathan, I’m scared"—her voice pitched just right. He bent to comfort her, stroking her hair the way he used to stroke mine. Grief crashed over me. My mother’s jade bracelet—the only thing she left me—dug into my wrist as I clenched my fists.

I tried to call him again, but only gasped for air, lost in the din of beeping machines and crying families. The hospital reeked of antiseptic and burnt coffee.

He never looked at me, not once. Not at the wife denied her chance to survive, the woman who stood by him through law school, bankruptcy, his mother’s cancer. The woman carrying our five-month-old child—the baby we’d already named Emma.

Just this morning, in our Upper West Side apartment, he’d kissed my forehead, coffee on his breath. "Honey, be careful out there. I’ll pick you up after work." He’d texted me heart emojis at lunch.