Chapter 1398:


    Everyone’s attention shifted back to the operating table.


    Maia inhaled deeply, her fingertips trembling.


    She locked away her emotions, letting her gaze sharpen into pure resolve.


    Her grip on the scalpel steadied. No fear. No doubt.


    Only one goal remained.


    She would save Chris—no matter what.


    That night, Wront’s entire medicalwork surged into emergency mode.


    Sirens wailed through the streets. Hallways zed with light. Doctors and nurses raced to triage the flood of wounded. Security guards struggled to keep terrified crowds under control.


    Panic rippled through the masses—screams, tears, and bodies fainting amidst the chaos.


    Stretchers flew past, orders barked with urgent authority.


    It was the most chaotic, perilous night Wront had faced in years, and the most disastrous day Cohen had ever known.


    Hidden in the shadows, he cursed how close he hade to killing Maia.


    She was no longer Maia Morgan—she had be Maia Watson.


    Cohen didn’t understand why Richard’s son wanted her dead. But one thing was clear: Jarrod had changed his mind at the end.


    The scent of conspiracy was unmistakable, dragging up memories Cohen wished he’d left buried.


    Someone had manipted Jarrod—used him like a pawn.


    And now, things had turned grim for Cohen. His identity had beenpromised. Kolton had surely dispatched assassins already.


    He needed to disappear fast. Somece no one would think to search.


    Your storytelling destination is gα?ησν????s


    A sudden idea struck Cohen, and he bolted toward the Morgan family’s vi.


    He had to get back to the attic, where he’d once hidden—somewhere he could lie low. He refused to die like this.


    “At the very least, before I go, I have to tell Chris what really happened,” he muttered. “I never betrayed his father. I was tricked by Kolton Cooper.”


    At Wront Central Hospital, the operating room buried furthest within theplex was flooded with stark, blinding light. The harsh white glow fell across the blood-stained figure lying on the table.


    Maia lifted the scalpel.


    “Incise the fascia,” she said, her voice steady and precise.


    “Suction.”


    “Hemostat.”


    “Ready the thoracoscope.”


    Every direction was crisp and exact. Her movements were clean, swift, unwavering.


    Only the metallic tter of instruments disturbed the tense stillness. Seconds ticked by like a countdown, and the operation unfolded as a duel with Death itself.


    Every cut was a desperate contest against the clock. Every time Maia stemmed the bleeding, she wrested life from the brink.


    She quieted her heartbeat, steadied her breathing to near stillness.


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