Chapter 916

One Percent Hope

"Get Dr. Laurent here now!"

Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor as the crowd instinctively parted.

Vivian Laurent strode forward, the hem of her lab coat fluttering with each determined step.

Every staff member recognized the legendary physician. From saving the congenital heart disease child to reviving little Theo who'd been given no chance, to her identity as Dr. Luna being revealed—each event had sent shockwaves through the hospital.

"It's Dr. Laurent!"

"But the infant's heart has stopped for over fifteen minutes..."

Whispers spread among the medical team. Some eyes lit with hope while others shook their heads discreetly.

The King and Queen stood nearby, faces ashen. Though untrained in medicine, the despair on the doctors' faces needed no translation.

Vivian approached the incubator where a heartbreakingly tiny newborn lay.

Queen Eleanor had endured brutal morning sickness, forcing down food only to vomit it back up. What should have nourished the fetus became the Queen's torment instead.

Premature infants were fragile under the best circumstances—this one born to an older mother faced even steeper odds.

The baby's skin held an unnatural purplish hue. No chest movement was visible. Its miniature body, smaller than Vivian's palm, depended entirely on the ventilator's mechanical breaths.

Vivian placed her hand gently over the infant's chest.

Her touch was featherlight—each gram of pressure precisely measured. Too much would fracture those delicate ribs; too little wouldn't restart the heart.

The room fell deathly silent.

Every observer held their breath, eyes locked on Vivian's every movement.

From her bag, she withdrew an antique needle case.

"What's that?" someone murmured.

"Quiet!" came the immediate hushed rebuke.

The silver filaments gleamed coldly under the lights. With a flick of her wrist, Vivian inserted the first hair-thin needle into the baby's tender skin.

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers.

No one had witnessed such treatment methods before. Yet in this moment, no one dared question. Vivian represented their last hope.

Her left hand maintained rhythmic cardiac compressions while her right manipulated the needles with unshakable steadiness. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, one hanging precariously at her chin.

Time stretched endlessly.

Each second passed like a century.

One percent chance.

That was Vivian's internal calculation. A sliver of possibility bearing the full weight of a royal family's desperate hopes.

She wouldn't surrender.

While a single spark of life remained, she would fight until the final moment.