Her husband knew their unborn son was in distress—yet when his lieutenant begged him to come home, Lucian looked at his mistress and whispered, “Not yet.”

In Milan, the heavy rain had turned into a violent downpour.

Inside the suite, Vance stood by the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear. On the line, his second-in-command stationed at Mercy General was screaming over the sound of hospital alarms.

"They just rushed her into OR 4! Code Crimson! The baby has severe bradycardia! Tell the boss to get on the damn plane!"

Vance ended the call and walked straight into the master bedroom.

Bianca was lying against silk pillows, sipping hot chamomile tea from a porcelain cup. Lucian sat on the edge of the mattress, his tie loosened, murmuring comforting words to her as she dabbed at completely dry cheeks.

"Lucian," Vance said, dropping all titles. "Your wife is on the table under general anesthesia. Your son's heart is stopping. If you do not leave this room this very second, you will receive a body bag instead of an heir."

Bianca flinched, clutching Lucian’s forearm. "Lucian, he’s being dramatic... he’s always hated me... my chest still hurts so much..."

Lucian stood up abruptly. The casual arrogance in his eyes finally cracked, replaced by a sudden, jagged terror. "Why didn't you say it was that critical?"

"I told you twenty minutes ago!" Vance roared, stepping forward until he was inches from the billionaire’s chest. "You told me 'Not yet'! You prioritized a mistress’s fake panic attack over your flesh and blood!"

"Watch your mouth, Vance!" Lucian snarled, but his hands were shaking as he grabbed his coat from the chair. He checked his phone. There were twelve missed calls from Marcus Chen, four from Elena, and one unread text from Serena:

*The baby is coming. Please come home......*

The timestamp was forty-five minutes ago.

A cold bead of sweat slid down Lucian’s spine. He dialed her number. It went straight to voicemail. He dialed Dr. Katherine’s direct line.

"Dr. Katherine is scrubbed in surgery," an administrative voice answered coldly. "Who is calling?"

"This is Lucian Vance! Her husband! Put me through to the operating theater!"

"Sir, no outside calls are permitted in an active trauma surgery. If you are family, you should be in the surgical waiting lounge."

The line clicked off.

Lucian lowered the phone, his face gray. "Get the car. Vance, get the car right now."

"Too late, sir," Vance said, his voice dropping to a cemetery chill. "Air traffic control just grounded all private departures out of Malpensa due to the wind shear. The window closed three minutes ago."