But she had spent years teaching herself one thing:
the difference between finality and possibility.
Her voice came out sharper than she expected.
• “I need a dry towel. Now.”
One of the nurses stepped forward furiously.
• “Get this woman out of here!”
Then Alejandro’s voice exploded across the room.
• “Nobody touches her!”
Everyone froze.
The billionaire still stood near the bed, tie loosened, eyes bloodshot, grief pouring out of him in waves.
But in that moment he didn’t look powerful.
He looked like a desperate father clinging to the last fragment of hope his mind could still survive.
Mariana grabbed a basin of ice.
Her hands trembled violently.
Not from uncertainty.
From memory.
She wrapped the ice carefully inside the sheet and began cooling the baby’s head and neck with astonishing precision.
Not randomly.
Not desperately.
Methodically.
As though following instructions engraved directly into her bones.
• “Hypoxia… short window… lower temperature… buy time…”
The doctor stared at her.
Confused now.
Not merely angry.
Because there was logic in what she was doing.
Dangerous logic.
• “That’s not protocol.”
Mariana finally looked at him.
And there was fury in her eyes.
• “Declaring him dead in under five minutes isn’t protocol either.”
The words landed like a slap.
One young nurse looked away immediately.
