Harold looked seriously at Lucas, pausing before speaking in a hoarse voice. "Lucas, Mr. Chambers is in grave danger. I've performed initial surgery, and he'll soon be ready for transfer to the ICU. However, the blood clot in his brain is critically located, and with my skills, I can't operate. Within twenty-four hours, you must find a leading neurologist to operate, or else…"

The unspoken implication hung heavy, understood completely by Lucas. Panic seized him. "Dr. Anderson, everyone in Seacrity knows you're our top neurologist. If even you can't do this, who can I find at this hour?"

Harold sighed. "I have no options. We must contact top neurologists, both domestically and internationally, and have them fly to Seacrity immediately."

Lucas felt utterly lost. Dr. Anderson is asking me to find a top neurologist now? Where am I supposed to find one at this hour? Am I just supposed to watch Mr. Chambers die? he thought.

Just then, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Both Harold and Lucas turned. A group of doctors and nurses approached, led by a man in dark clothing; his tall, composed stance projected an intimidating aura. Harold recognized their former dean, Tristan Sloan, slightly behind the leader. Tristan went to Betrico for a meeting—why is he back? Harold wondered.

Lucas was stunned, then overjoyed. The image of Jeremiah, whom he'd met at the police station, flooded his mind. Harold hurried toward Tristan, while Lucas eagerly approached the central figure.

"Mr. Sloan, why are you back? Is the conference over?" Harold asked.

Tristan's expression was unreadable, his gaze lingering on Jeremiah. Jeremiah, without speaking, had evidently pulled Tristan from the conference. Lucas, disregarding everything else, practically threw himself at Jeremiah, hope shining in his eyes.

"I'm the Chambers family's butler. Are you here for Mr. Chambers? What about Ms. Chambers? Has she returned?"

Jeremiah nodded slightly, his eyes cold. "Yes, she's on her way. I'll handle it."

Lucas felt a pang of disappointment that Yvette hadn't arrived, but Jeremiah's presence, leading a team of doctors, instilled some confidence.

Tristan turned to Harold. "How is Mr. Chambers?"

Observing Lucas' interaction with Jeremiah, and Tristan's respectful demeanor, Harold realized their acquaintance and Jeremiah's significant status.

"Mr. Sloan, the situation is critical," Harold explained. "When Zachary was admitted, his heart and lung function were severely compromised. There's a critically located blood clot in his brain. I've performed surgery, but it's only a temporary reprieve. He'll be moved to the ICU shortly."

Looking at the assembled faces, Harold continued, "We need a top brain surgeon within twenty-four hours, or his life is in danger. Only one expert is available—Quentin Xander, head of neurosurgery at Betrico Medical University. But he's at an international conference."

How is this considered having a chance at survival? Tristan thought. Quentin's attending a triennial conference. Returning would likely mean a promotion to vice president. Why would he rush back for someone he doesn't know?

Tristan addressed Jeremiah. "Mr. Chavez, this will be difficult. The conference is crucial for Quentin's career, and Mr. Chambers…" He trailed off.

Lucas collapsed to the floor, his face paling.

Jeremiah's eyes remained impassive as he video-called Quentin. The call was answered immediately; Quentin, startled awake, quickly composed himself.

A refined middle-aged man appeared on screen, a warm smile replacing his initial surprise. "Hello, Mr. Chavez."

Jeremiah’s reply was curt. "Get dressed. Someone will pick you up in half an hour. Come to Seacrity for surgery. A patient needs your skills."

Quentin was momentarily taken aback, but quickly nodded. "No problem. I'll pack immediately. What's the patient's condition? The lead doctor? I need to understand the situation and plan the surgery."

Jeremiah's silence conveyed the urgency. Quentin understood the gravity; a personal call from Jeremiah meant the patient was teetering on death's edge.

Harold, stiffly taking the phone, was speechless. A top neurosurgeon, admired by all, is going to speak to me? About a patient's condition? he thought, staring at Jeremiah in shock. Who is this man?

Quentin, appearing on screen, greeted Harold politely and directly, inquiring about Zachary's condition. "Hello, I'm Quentin. What's the patient's current state? Significant blood loss? Exact location of the brain injury?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Harold, a professional with a strong ethical compass, moved to a corner, giving a precise, technical update on Zachary's condition.

Three minutes later, a far more respectful Harold returned the phone. "Here's your phone, sir. Dr. Xander has something to discuss with you."

Quentin’s expression was now serious. "Mr. Chavez, the situation is critical; the next twenty-four hours are vital. Even with timely surgery, the five-hour flight on your private jet presents complications. Operating in Seacrity now offers a better chance than after the delay. Even then, there’s only a 60% success rate. You must inform the family."