Chapter 719

The physician wasted no time cutting to the chase. "Mr. Whitmore, your son has a congenital heart defect. He'll require surgery, but given his premature state, the procedure carries significant risks. Most surgeons wouldn't dare operate on an infant this fragile."

Alexander's grip tightened around the medical report. The unspoken implication hung heavy in the sterile air—failure was a very real possibility.

"And even if the initial operation succeeds," the doctor continued, "he'll need meticulous aftercare. A second surgery will be necessary by age three."

The words struck Alexander like a physical blow. Prematurity compounded the danger. No guarantees. No promises. Just a tiny life balanced on a knife's edge.

"Additionally," the doctor added, flipping a page, "he's presenting with severe anemia. We'll need to administer a blood transfusion immediately."

"Whatever he needs," Alexander said without hesitation. But the heart condition... That conversation with Evelyn would require careful timing. Would she even survive the news?

He gave a curt nod. "Schedule the surgery at the earliest possible date. Spare no expense."

The physician nodded briskly. "I'll assemble our top pediatric cardiology team."

A nurse guided Alexander to the transfusion ward. Routine blood typing first. When the results flashed on the screen, her brow furrowed. "This can't be right... Your blood type isn't compatible. The baby has type B."

Alexander went rigid. "Type B?"

"Must've inherited it from Mrs. Whitmore," the nurse offered cheerfully.

The world tilted. Neither he nor Evelyn had type B blood. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Verify that result."

The nurse double-checked. "Confirmed. See for yourself."

Alexander scanned the document. Without another word, he strode back to the NICU, his footsteps echoing like gunshots in the hollow corridor.

The incubator's occupant slept peacefully, tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical assistance. Alexander studied every minute detail—the slope of the nose, the curve of the brow. Traces of Evelyn, yes. But nothing of himself.

Then the infant stirred, blinking open drowsy eyes.

Alexander recoiled as if struck.

Those eyes.

Unmistakably Ethan Caldwell's.

His vision tunneled. The walls seemed to press inward. That arrogant bastard had boasted the child was his months ago. Alexander had dismissed it as drunken bravado.

But now?

Blood type mismatch. Ethan's distinctive cobalt eyes staring back at him. The math was horrifyingly simple.

"Mr. Whitmore?" The doctor's voice sounded distant. "You're pale. Should I call—"

"Proceed with the surgery." Alexander barely recognized his own voice.

He turned on his heel and left, the weight of betrayal crushing his ribs with every step.

Simon Graves waited anxiously outside. One look at Alexander's ashen face told him something was catastrophically wrong. "Sir? The baby's condition—"

"Vanessa," Alexander interrupted hoarsely. "Has she left her room today?"

Simon blinked at the non sequitur. "No. With her injuries and recent delivery, she's been bedridden."

Alexander's jaw clenched. No switching scenario. No hospital error. Just cold, irrefutable genetics.

He needed air. Needed to think. "Don't follow me."

As Alexander disappeared down the stairwell, Simon cast a troubled glance toward the NICU. Was the prognosis worse than they'd feared?

Meanwhile, in a private maternity suite, Evelyn Sinclair's phone vibrated with a coded message:

It's done. The healthy one's ours now.

Vanessa Hart nearly wept with relief. Finally—after months of humiliation and failure—fate had dealt Evelyn Carter a losing hand. Her mother's voice crackled through the receiver:

"I weighed them during the switch. That sickly thing is definitely hers now."

Vanessa's lips curled into a vicious smile. Let the perfect Mrs. Whitmore explain why her "miracle baby" was dying.

Justice, at last.