Page 122 of Secret Heir

Aria has her hands on Daniel’s face, trying to keep his head from slamming against the tile. Her fingers are white-knuckled. “Daniel, please. Please, baby, please stay with me,” she sobs. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave⁠—”

The door bursts open and guards flood in with their weapons drawn until they see what’s happening. One of them—Ilya—is already on his radio, his voice sharp and clear. “Medical emergency! West dining room! Child down! Repeat, child down!”

“He’s been poisoned!” I shout as Aria screams. “Get the medical team now! Move!”

Daniel’s convulsions are getting worse. His whole body goes rigid, back arches off the floor, and I can see his lips turning blue.

He’s not breathing.

Oh God, he’s not breathing.

“No,” I breathe, feeling like I’m having an out of body experience as my body goes numb. “No, no, no. Daniel. Solnyshko, breathe. You have to breathe. Breathe!”

Aria is sobbing, her hands shaking violently as she tries to tilt Daniel’s head back to clear his airway. “Come on, baby. Please. Please breathe. Mama’s here. I’m right here. Just breathe for me. Please⁠—”

Through my panic, I try to remember my emergency training. Airway, breathing, circulation. But all I can see is my son’s blue lips, his rolling eyes, his body that won’t stop seizing.

I’m losing him. I’m watching my son die and I can’t stop it.

The compound’s medical team arrives in under two minutes carrying emergency equipment. Dr. Petrov and two nurses immediately take over, pushing Aria and me back with firm but gentle hands.

“Neurotoxin,” Dr. Petrov says, his voice clipped as he examines Daniel. His hands are steady as he checks Daniel. “It’s fast-acting. Ludmila, get me atropine and pralidoxime. Now. Yuri, prepare for possible cardiac arrest.”

Cardiac arrest. My eyes are wide with horror as Aria screams.

The nurse—Ludmila—is already preparing injections, her movements quick and precise. The other nurse—Yuri—is setting up an IV line in Daniel’s small arm, finding the vein on the first try despite Daniel’s thrashing.

“Heart rate is dropping,” Yuri says, his voice tight. “BP sixty over forty and falling. Respiratory rate severely depressed.”

“Push the atropine.” Dr. Petrov injects something into Daniel’s IV line. “Come on, kid. Fight this. You’re strong. Come on.”

Daniel’s convulsions are slowing as his body goes still.

That’s so much worse because that doesn’t mean the poison is losing. It means the poison is winning.

“He’s crashing!” Ludmila’s voice rises with urgency. “No pulse! I’m not getting a pulse!”

“Start CPR.” Dr. Petrov is on his knees in an instant, beginning chest compressions on my son’s small chest. His hands look huge against Daniel’s tiny ribcage. “One, two, three, four⁠—”

I’m completely frozen, watching a stranger perform CPR on my seven-year-old son. Watching Daniel’s chest compress and release with each thrust. Watching his still chest and lifeless body.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Aria is screaming. Someone is trying to hold her back—one of the guards—but she’s fighting with inhuman strength, clawing and kicking, trying to get to Daniel.

“Let me go! That’s my baby! Daniel! Danny, Mama’s here! Please wake up! Please!”

Her voice breaks into incoherent sobbing, and the sound tears something fundamental in my chest.

“Clear!” Dr. Petrov uses the portable defibrillator, pressing the paddles to Daniel’s chest. Daniel’s body jerks violently and Aria screams again. “No pulse. Continuing compressions. Ludmila, push another round of epi.”

The nurse injects something else into the IV and Dr. Petrov keeps doing compressions, counting under his breath.

“Please.” I don’t realize I’m speaking until I hear my own voice, broken and desperate. “Please, he’s seven years old. He likes pirates and dinosaurs and his stuffed rabbit. Please don’t let him die. He’s my son. He’s my little boy. Please⁠—”

“Pulse!” Yuri’s voice cracks with relief. “We have a pulse!”

But Daniel’s not breathing on his own and Dr. Petrov starts bagging him, forcing air into his lungs manually with a mask and bag valve.