My Husband Buried Our Kids. So I Buried His Legacy. Fair Trade. Chapter 01
My husband Lucian Drake is the best heart surgeon in the state.
But he and his intern used the wrong anesthesia dosage, and KILLED our twin sons.
His hand landed on my shoulder, “We can always have more.”
Then he grabbed his suitcase and left. Emergency consultation, he said. Took HER with him. Flew to Los Angeles.
That night, they watched fireworks at Disneyland. Celebrating her “first solo case.” Meanwhile, I was on my knees, clutching two small urns, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
The next morning, I put both their names on the overseas assignment list.
Reason: Gross medical negligence.
Why should these two assholes who killed my children get to smile like that?
He wants to protect her? Then they can go to HELL together.
—
My twin boys, Ethan and Evan, were seven years old. Born with defective hearts.
I knew the surgery was risky. But my husband is the top cardiothoracic surgeon in the state. He’s saved hundreds of lives. Maybe thousands.
Lucian Drake doesn’t lose. That’s what everyone said. I believed it too.
The surgery lasted nine hours. I sat in the waiting room the whole time. Didn’t eat. Didn’t drink. Just a cup of coffee that had gone cold three hours ago.
When Lucian finally walked out, he didn’t look at me. He looked at the floor.
“I’m sorry.”
“They didn’t make it.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just sat there. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Two hours later, he wheeled his carry-on past me.
“There’s an emergency case at a hospital in Los Angeles. They need a specialist to consult right away.”
“Elara, the kids’ heart defects were too severe. No one could have saved them. Including me.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Take care of yourself. We can always have more.”
More.
Like they were a failed recipe. Like I could just go back to the store and buy new ingredients.
But I didn’t say anything. I just felt empty inside.
The next day, after the cremation, I held the urn that contained what was left of my boys. Only then did I feel like I was grasping something real.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I scrolled through Instagram mindlessly, trying to blur my brain with bright, colorful screens.
And then I saw it—Mira Voss’s account.
She’s the intern Lucian’s been training. He always says she has “so much potential.”
Her latest post was a carousel of nine photos.
Disneyland fireworks. A photo of interlaced fingers. And one of her standing on her tiptoes, kissing a man’s jaw.
There was a scar on that man’s jaw. A scar I knew well.
The one Lucian got ten years ago, when he took a knife for me during a mugging.
Caption:
[First solo case and I screwed up the anesthesia dosage, almost ruined my board certification. So annoying. Good thing my knight in scrubs saved me.]
The next one:
[If this gets ten likes, I’m confessing to my crush.]
My heart had already been shattered. Now it turned cold to the bone.
I typed a few words and hit send:
[No need for ten likes. I, the “crush’s” wife, give you permission to be together.]
Three seconds later, my phone rang. Lucian’s voice—usually cold and controlled—was now laced with anger:
“She only posted that because she lost a game of truth or dare. You had to leave that humiliating comment?”
“She just started at the hospital. You’ll ruin her career.”
“Go crazy on your own time. Don’t drag others into it. You have ten seconds to delete it. Otherwise, we’re getting a divorce.”
I hung up. Then I opened the overseas assignment list the board had just sent over.
Our hospital has a three-year partnership program in Africa. Harsh conditions. No one volunteers.
I added two names. Lucian Drake. Mira Voss.
Reason: Gross medical negligence.
Why should these two assholes who killed my children get to smile like that?
You want to protect her? Then go to hell together.