At the central nursing station, a single monitor was chiming, but there were no doctors running.

Only one nurse stood there, her hands shaking as she stared at the main console.

“What’s the status?” Ethan demanded, his voice commanding and sharp.

The nurse looked up, her face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Dr. Harrison,” she stammered. “The system… someone bypassed the alarm from the administrative override.”

“Where are my children?” I asked, grabbing the edge of the desk.

“They are fine, Ms. Parker,” she said, pointing toward the glass-walled room at the end of the hall.

“The incubator monitors are normal.”

“It was a diversion,” Ethan said, his jaw tightening.

He walked over to the glass partition and looked inside.

Our boy and girl were sleeping, their tiny chests rising and falling under the blue warmth lamps.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.

“She wanted us out of the basement,” Ethan said, looking down at his watch.

“The fundraising gala started thirty minutes ago in the atrium.”