The number echoed in his mind the entire way down the corridor.
When he finally pushed the door open, the sight inside nearly brought him to his knees.
Vanessa lay motionless on the bed, her skin pale, her body surrounded by machines that blinked and beeped in cold, mechanical rhythm. Tubes ran across her face, wires attached to her chest, as if the machines were the only thing keeping her tethered to life.
The steady sound of the heart monitor filled the room.
Not comforting.
Counting.
Counting down.
But what struck Henry the hardest wasn’t what he saw.
It was what was missing.
The chair beside her bed was empty.
No jacket draped over it. No coffee cup left behind. No flowers. No sign that anyone had been there, waiting, hoping, praying.
No sign of a husband.
Vanessa wasn’t just fighting for her life.
She was doing it alone.
Something inside Henry cracked open, something raw and unguarded that no boardroom battle had ever touched.
A nurse entered quietly, her face lined with exhaustion.
“Are you family?” she asked gently.
“I’m her father,” Henry said, his voice rough, barely controlled. “Where is her husband? Where’s Ethan?”