"Samantha." His voice cut like ice. "This is a hospital, not a street market. All this screaming—did you forget every shred of decorum the Sanchez name should have taught you?" His jaw tightened. "You've disturbed Ruth while she's having her finger treated."
My gaze followed his gesture.
That's when I saw it: a Hello Kitty band-aid wrapped around Ruth's fingertip.
And behind her—over twenty doctors. Trailing after her like an entourage.
Something inside me cracked open.
No wonder no one came when I called. Not a single doctor.
He'd summoned every last one of them for a cut on her finger.
I swallowed the acid rising in my throat and stepped forward, my daughter clutched to my chest. My voice broke. "Nora has a fever. Please—call a doctor."
Cyril's frown deepened. He shifted his weight, about to move—
Ruth doubled over, clutching her abdomen, her voice a silken whimper. "Cyril... it hurts so much. Am I dying?"
His attention snapped to her instantly.
In one fluid motion, he swept her into his arms and barked at the wall of white coats: "Prepare for surgery. Now."
I grabbed his arm, desperate. "Our daughter—"
But Ruth had already wound her arms around his neck, her face buried against his throat.