Chapter 8:

#HeartStopping

The sun had softened the chocolate in my pocket, but I popped it into my mouth anyway as I made my escape from the crowd. 

I wanted privacy while I licked the melted chocolate from my fingers—slow, deliberate, sinful. Sweetness clung to my tongue, and for a heartbeat, I let myself imagine Parker catching me like this. His teasing. That infuriating smirk. The way he’d drag it out, just to watch me squirm.

Everything inside me burned—scorching, consuming—yet somehow it still wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I always wanted more.

“In my opinion, no one’s too old to lick chocolate from their hands.”

The unexpected voice startled me. I turned to see an older woman approaching—Rosa, I’d later learn—her flyaway grays escaping from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. She wore a lopsided grin, the kind that hinted at a lifetime of unfiltered wisdom. One hand pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose; the other clutched a watering can.

Must be her garden.

“Lovely, isn’t it? So much goes into creating beauty like this.”

Her accent was noticeable as she plucked a handful of weeds, her expression disapproving—like an aesthetician tending to an overgrown brow.

I leaned against a nearby tree. “You’ve done a beautiful job.”

She let out a small sigh, adjusting her grip on the watering can. “Yeah, it’s my little escape. Too bad my knees don’t always cooperate.” There was something disarming about her honesty that made me feel at ease.

“My grandmother loved roses,” I said, letting my gaze drift over the delicate blooms. “Seeing these makes me think of her.” I shifted my weight against the trunk, relaxing. “Do you live here?”

“Yes. I’ve worked with the Ozlers for almost forty years. They’re like family. I don’t think I could ever leave.”

She spoke fondly of her husband and their early years at the vineyard, her voice rich with nostalgia. But as she bent to grab the watering can, a sharp grimace crossed her face.

“Are you okay?” I stepped closer, concern tightening my chest.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just a sore shoulder,” she waved off my worry, but her petite frame lurched forward as she clutched her side. The reassurance in her voice faltered, and I wasn’t convinced.

“You look pale.” I stepped nearer, observing her.

Suddenly, she dropped the pitcher, spilling water as she fell forward. I lunged to catch her, but her weight pulled me down with her. What the hell was happening? Was she having a heart attack?  

I leaned in close, trying to feel her breath against my cheek. I’d seen heart attacks before at the rural clinic in Indonesia. Panic surged from my core to my throat, a visceral reminder that every second mattered. “Help!” I shouted, hoping someone would hear.

Just as I reached for my phone, a worker ran over from the vineyard. “Rosa!” he cried. “What happened?” He froze in place, unsure of what to do.

“She collapsed… she’s not responding. Call 911!” I shouted, my pulse spiking with panic.

I forced myself to focus, running through the steps ingrained in my mind.
A—Airway. I tilted her head back, scanning for any obstructions.
B—Breathing. I listened—nothing.
C—Circulation. My fingers pressed against the side of her neck—no pulse.

Adrenaline surged as I started compressions, my hands locking into position over her sternum.
One, two, three, four… I counted, pushing down hard and fast. Every thirty compressions, I tilted her head back and gave two rescue breaths, willing air into her lungs.

You can do it. Stay with me. 

My arms burning from the force needed to keep her blood circulating. I tried not to think about how fragile she was—how easily her ribs could crack under my weight.

I stole a glance around. Where the hell is that guy? Had he even called 911?

I kept going, alternating between breaths and compressions. Still nothing. Damn it!

At last, the vineyard worker returned, a small group of students trailing behind him. Relief surged through me, though exhaustion was quickly catching up. My shoulders ached, and I hoped someone would step in.

“The ambulance is on the way,” the worker announced. “What can I do?”

I scanned the group, desperate for backup. “Does anyone here know CPR?”

Silence.

Seriously? Not a single one of these so-called future doctors could help?

A few more minutes passed before a faculty member arrived, his tall frame quickly bending over Rosa.

“I’ll take over,” he said, seamlessly stepping in. Together, we alternated between breaths and chest compressions, keeping a steady rhythm.

Sweat dripped down my face, but I had no free hand to wipe it away. My arms burned with exhaustion, but I kept going. Then, finally— a faint pulse. A shallow breath.

She was alive!

Three EMTs arrived and immediately took over. I stepped back, observing as they used a bag-valve mask to support her breathing.

“What happened?” one of them asked, focused but calm as they worked.

“She had acute onset shoulder pain, possibly referred pain from an acute MI. She collapsed with no pulse or breathing, so I started CPR,” I explained, my voice shaky from the adrenaline and exhaustion.

In under a minute, they attached a cardiac defibrillator. The machine detected an arrhythmia, then instructed us to clear the area as it delivered a small shock. Rosa’s eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded my body as the tension in my shoulders melted away.

The EMTs prepared to transport her, and I walked alongside the gurney, feeling a sense of responsibility. 

As they loaded Rosa into the ambulance, an older man approached, holding Rosa’s hand. Her color had returned, and she nodded weakly in his direction—a good sign. I was high on the feeling of bringing life back into the world. Maybe not everything I touched brought death, like it had for my mom and Zara’s sister.  It felt good to be one life to two deaths on the life-death scoreboard. 

I watched while a large crowd of students and staff grew around us. The faculty member who’d helped with chest compressions walked over, extending his hand.

“I’m Dr. Kieran Thomas, the Vice Dean of Academic Affairs,” he introduced himself.

“Prin De Sangue,” I replied, shaking his hand, though my arm was still sore.

“You’re ACLS certified?” He seemed surprised, glancing at my uniform.

“I learned while working abroad at a rural hospital,” I said, feeling the weight of the afternoon settle over me.

“Lucky for her, you were nearby.” Dr. Thomas wiped sweat from his forehead. We shared a look of mutual understanding—no words were necessary.

Just then, an older gentleman and a young woman carrying a baby approached. “Are you the person who helped Rosa?” he asked, eyeing me with a mix of skepticism and gratitude.

I nodded. “Yes, I think she had a heart attack. But she was conscious by the time the EMTs loaded her. I’m hopeful she’ll be okay. Do you know her?”

“She’s worked with us for years,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The young woman stepped closer, cradling the baby. “You’re a med student?” she asked, tilting her head.

“No. I’m a college freshman—starting next week,” I replied with a weak smile.

They both stared at me in astonishment. “We can’t thank you enough,” the woman said, gripping my hand. Her voice wavered as she rocked the baby, trying to calm it down.

Instead of soothing the child, the baby let out an ear-splitting scream—followed by a spectacular stream of projectile vomit. Right onto my uniform. And my hair. And my face.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” The woman gasped, mortified, and frantically handed me a burp cloth.

I wiped my face and hair while she tried to clean up the baby. “I’m okay,” I assured her, swallowing a sigh. I’d dealt with worse.

After all, I survived elite boarding school—this wasn’t my first run-in with vomit. At least this time, it didn’t reek of cheap vodka.

Surprisingly, the  uniform held up well—the vomit slid right off. It likely wouldn’t be the last bodily fluid it encountered over the next four years.

As the ambulance doors slammed shut, I caught Sebastian watching me from the edge of the crowd, his mouth curved in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d saved Rosa’s life…or painted the bullseye squarely on my own back.

***

Is Prin the hero or a Swiftie-style antihero? :)

Will Sebastian keep her from her one true love?

That's a secret you'll have to read to find out.

XOXO, Sabina