Chapter 4

Emilia's POV

Six years later, Lincoln City International Airport

I took off my sunglasses and took a deep breath. The hustle and bustle of the airport immediately washed over me—travelers rushing to and fro, the constant chime of announcements overhead, the sound of luggage carts rolling across the gleaming floor. Six years. It had been six whole years since I'd set foot in this city.

I'm back. I'm actually back.

Standing in the baggage claim area, I felt like a stranger. This city had once been my home, had once contained all my dreams, and had also cruelly abandoned me. My fingers unconsciously fidgeted with the strap of my carry-on as my heart rate involuntarily accelerated.

Calm down, Emilia. You're not that helpless girl anymore.

A heart-wrenching scream interrupted my thoughts.

"Help! Does anyone know CPR? My husband! He's not breathing!"

I spun around to see a middle-aged man collapsed on the floor nearby, his face ashen. His wife knelt beside him, screaming helplessly. A crowd quickly formed a circle around them, but people merely pulled out their phones to record rather than stepping forward to help.

Damn it!

I dropped my luggage and rushed over. "Make way! I'm a doctor!" I shouted, and the crowd immediately parted to let me through.

I knelt beside the man, immediately checking his breathing and pulse. "Does he have a history of heart problems?" I asked rapidly, loosening his tie and shirt collar.

"Yes! He has a stent!" the woman cried, "He suddenly said his chest hurt, and then he collapsed!"

"Someone get me that AED!" I pointed to the emergency equipment on the wall. "And someone time this—tell me how long he's been down!"

The man had no pulse. I immediately began chest compressions. "One, two, three, four..." I counted rhythmically, applying precise pressure with each push. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but my hands remained steady as steel.

You're not dying on my watch, sir. Not today.

Someone brought the AED, and I quickly attached the electrode pads. "Everyone stand back!" I ordered, pressing the button. The man's body jerked from the electric shock. I checked his pulse again—still nothing.

"Continue CPR!" I muttered to myself, resuming chest compressions.

After the third round of resuscitation, the man finally coughed weakly, his pulse gradually returning. By the time the airport medical team arrived, he had a stable heartbeat.

"Ma'am, you saved his life," the lead medical responder said in amazement. "Are you a cardiologist?"

"No, neurology," I answered simply, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Please make sure he's taken to Kendall Medical Center immediately."

After the crowd dispersed, I could finally catch my breath. My hands trembled slightly—not from nervousness, but from the ebbing adrenaline. My phone vibrated, displaying a message from Sophia.

I couldn't help but smile as I opened it.

"Mom!!! I miss you SOOOOO much!! Grandpa made dolphin pancakes but he burned them and they were GROSS! Uncle James says if you don't come home soon, he's coming to get you! All my other uncles miss you too! When are you coming home? Love you a million!"

In the photo, Sophia puffed out her cheeks in a silly face, her amber eyes sparkling with mischief, chocolate syrup still smudged at the corner of her mouth.

My little angel. A wave of warmth washed over me.

"Coming home soon, sweetheart. Tell Grandpa he needs more pancake practice. Love you more than the entire universe!"

I put my phone away and continued toward the exit with my luggage. Six years ago, the Morrison family—my biological family—had found me after I fell into a coma from that terrible car accident. Miraculously, the accident hadn't taken my unborn children; I successfully delivered twins, though doctors told me my son had died during the premature birth. Only Sophia survived.

If he were alive today, he'd be an energetic little boy now. The thought stung my heart like a needle.

With the Morrison family's support, I specialized in neurology, using another identity—Dr. Nightingale—to develop treatments for neural toxins, which became my salvation from grief.

As I was lost in memories, a small figure nearly collided with my legs.

"Whoa!" I exclaimed, looking down to see a boy about five years old. When our eyes met, my breath caught in my throat.

Those eyes...

Blue-green irises, like jewels shimmering in deep water, studied me intently. They were too similar, too much like that man's eyes.

"You're Dr. Nightingale, aren't you?" he asked straightforwardly, his voice clear and confident.

My heart skipped a beat. "What? I don't know what you're talking about, young man."

The boy grinned smugly, revealing a missing baby tooth. "Don't pretend! I saw you save that man having a heart attack. You said you're a neurologist! And," he lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret, "I already hacked into the airline system and checked—Dr. Nightingale was on your flight today."

I stared at the child in disbelief, amazed at his intelligence at such a young age. "Did you just say you hacked into... How old are you?"

"Five," he answered proudly, puffing out his little chest. "Programming is as easy as playing with Legos for me. So, can you help my dad?"

"Wait, slow down," I crouched to his eye level, "I'm not Dr. Nightingale. And should I know your father?"

"I'm Adam," he introduced himself, extending his small hand to formally shake mine. "My dad's eyes are having problems. Doctors say it's some kind of neurotoxin affecting his optic nerves. Everyone says only Dr. Nightingale can treat it."

Neurotoxin? My professional interest was piqued. Such cases were extremely rare and precisely my field of research.

"Listen, Adam, I'm really sorry about your dad, but I can't—"

"PLEASE!" he suddenly grabbed my hand, his eyes filling with tears. "Sometimes he suddenly can't see anything. Yesterday he almost fell down the stairs. I... I'm afraid one day he won't be able to see me anymore."

My heart tightened. God, this child... His expression carried worry beyond his years. That fear of losing his father, that mature concern no child should have to bear...

"Adam, I..." I hesitated, professional caution and compassion battling within me.

"You saved that man's life," Adam persisted, his voice trembling. "Couldn't you at least try to save my dad's? Just... look at him once?"

Damn it, how can I refuse this child?

"Alright," I finally conceded. "I can briefly learn about the symptoms, but I can't promise I can provide treatment, understand?"

Adam's face instantly brightened. "Awesome! Thank you! I knew you'd help!" He quickly pulled out a smartphone.

As we walked toward the elevators, he was already dialing. "Dad! Great news! I found Dr. Nightingale! She's going to help with your eyes!" he exclaimed, bouncing excitedly.

I was about to correct him that I wasn't Dr. Nightingale when the voice from the other end of the call struck me like lightning.

"Adam, where did you run off to? Mark and I have been worried sick. Did you just say something about Night—"

That voice.

My world seemed to stop spinning. That deep, authoritative, slightly husky tone—even after five years, I could recognize it among millions.

Noah Blake.