Chapter 2 The Unthinkable

• Mirabelle’s Dread
• Mirabelle Steward was no stranger to grief. She had buried her husband, survived bankruptcy, and watched her only daughter slowly waste away in a sterile hospital room.
• But nothing—nothing—prepared her for the shriek that came from Abby one cold morning: “Belle! Belle, come quick! It’s Lucia! She’s been in an accident!”
• Time froze.
• The laundry basket in Mirabelle’s arms clattered to the floor. The familiar click of wooden hangers meant nothing now. Only her daughter’s name rang in her ears.
• Lucia. Her baby. Her reason for breathing.
• Within minutes, she and Abby were racing through the town in a rickety taxi. Mirabelle’s thoughts tumbled, tripped, and collided with fear. She didn’t even ask which hospital. Abby gave the driver the name: Bluetree National.
• Her breath caught. That was a premium facility—high-security, mostly reserved for elite families and foreign dignitaries. Why would her daughter be taken there?
• Inside the emergency reception, Mirabelle's voice cracked as she reached the counter. “My daughter—Lucia Steward—please, where is she?”
• The nurse, a gentle-faced woman with a badge reading Stacy, clicked away on her computer. “She’s just been taken into surgery,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Please, wait in Room 2. The doctor will update you shortly.”
• Mirabelle’s knees threatened to give out.
• “Is she—will she survive?”
• “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. But the best surgical team is with her.”
• Mirabelle found herself in a waiting room that felt more like a tomb. The white walls pressed in. The ticking clock above the door mocked her. She clasped her hands, praying not in ritual, but in desperation. There was no chapel on earth that could understand a mother’s plea.
• A hand on her shoulder made her jump.
• Abby.
• She had tears in her eyes but said nothing. Mirabelle nodded, unable to speak. They sat side-by-side, waiting.
• The door finally opened. A tall man in scrubs entered, pulling off his gloves. His surgical mask hung loosely as he removed it to speak.
• “Mrs. Steward?” His voice was deep but gentle.
• “Yes,” she whispered. “Is she…”
• “She’s alive,” the man said. “Your daughter suffered a severe head injury—a screw had pierced her skull between her eye and ear. Millimeters closer, and it would have hit the brainstem.”
• Mirabelle gasped, pressing her hand to her lips.
• “She’ll be in a coma,” he added. “We don’t know for how long. But she’s stable. For now, that’s the best we can offer.”
• Mirabelle didn’t remember falling, only the strength of his hand as he caught her and guided her to the couch.
• “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving her.”
• He nodded. “My name is Dr. Hamilton. She’s being moved to ICU. You’ll be able to see her in about an hour.”
• Outside, Abby wrapped her in a tight hug. “She’ll make it, Belle. Lucia’s strong.”
• Mirabelle could only nod. But deep down, something tugged at her spirit.
• Lucia’s accident didn’t feel like just bad luck. It felt like something—or someone—had planned it.