The medical room felt stifling. Shirley lay motionless on the bed in her hospital gown, her face as pale as the sheets beneath her. Machines beeped softly by her side while doctors and nurses hovered nearby, their movements hurried and anxious.
“Her fever’s still climbing,” one doctor muttered. “Nothing we’ve given is working.”
“The convulsions are getting worse too,” another chimed in. “Her brain isn’t getting enough blood… If this keeps up, she could end up brain damaged.”
“Doctor, what should we do?” a nurse asked, her voice shaking with panic, sweat dotting her forehead. Everyone here knew who Shirley was—Andrew’s soon-to-be wife, someone with connections and a status no one dared to overlook. Patricia herself had told them all, “No matter what, keep her safe.”
The air was so tense it felt like everyone was holding their breath.
In the middle of the chaos, a clear and steady voice sliced through the worry. “Let me handle this.”
Everyone turned instantly. It was Charlotte—famous in the medical world, known by so many as Black. She once saved Patricia when no one else could. Her reputation was legendary among these doctors.
“Of course,” someone said at once.
Recognizing Charlotte, the team exchanged nervous glances and stepped away from the bed, giving her space. Every eye in the room locked onto her, eager to see her in action. For most of them, just watching her work was priceless.
Charlotte leaned over Shirley. The girl’s cheeks were flushed, her whole body trembling. Charlotte brushed her fingers over Shirley’s forehead. Burning hot—definitely a high fever.
Maybe Shirley heard her voice, because her lashes fluttered weakly. She struggled to open her eyes but couldn’t quite manage.
“Don’t worry. This will be over soon,” Charlotte promised gently. She squeezed Shirley’s hand to reassure her, rolled up her own sleeves, then looked sharply at the doctors. “Do we have the needles?”

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