Within minutes, everything changed.
The ER doors burst open as Marcus Thompson, Ava’s father, strode in. A tall man in his late thirties, dressed in a dark suit, his presence commanded the room. Two men in security uniforms—his private protection detail—followed behind.
Carla rushed toward him, tears streaming down her face. “Marcus, thank God. He refused to help her!”
Marcus’s gaze fell on Ava—sweating, whimpering, her little body twitching from pain. His chest tightened as he took her from Carla’s arms. “Daddy’s here, baby,” he whispered, holding her close. Then he turned, eyes like steel, to face Dr. Harris.
“You refused to treat my daughter?” His voice was calm—but every word carried weight.
Dr. Harris adjusted his coat nervously. “Sir, I was following hospital protocol. We can’t admit patients without confirming financial—”
“Financial situation?” Marcus cut him off. “You saw a sick baby and thought about money? You saw her skin, saw my sister, and assumed we couldn’t pay. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
