"You took too long, David. I was so scared."
The high-pitched whine drifted through the crack of hospital room 412. I froze in the hallway, my hand hovering over the door handle.
"I got here as fast as I could, baby," David replied.
I pushed the heavy door open.
There was no emergency team. No doctors shouting orders. No flatlining monitors.
Abby sat upright against a mountain of white pillows. Her cheeks were flushed a healthy pink. She wore a silk nightgown that dipped dangerously low, completely inappropriate for a dying woman. She held a plastic cup of apple juice.
David sat on the edge of her mattress, clasping her free hand in both of his.
"What is going on?" I asked.
David whipped his head around. He jumped up, dropping Abby's fingers. "Bianca? Why are you here?"
"You bolted out of our apartment like she was taking her last breath," I said, stepping into the sterile room. "She looks perfectly fine."
"I had a nightmare," Abby whimpered, shrinking back against the headboard. "I woke up in the dark. I couldn't breathe. The nurse said my heart rate spiked."
"A bad dream," I repeated. My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. "You abandoned me, injured and bleeding, because your mistress had a bad dream?"
"Don't call her that!" David snapped. He stepped between me and the bed, shielding her. "She's fragile, Bianca. The panic attack could have triggered a cardiac event."
"She's drinking apple juice, David."
Abby's lower lip trembled. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her flawless makeup. "Why do you hate me so much? I'm just trying to survive my final days in peace."
"You want to talk about surviving?" I reached into my tote bag. My fingers brushed the smooth edge of the manila folder. I pulled it out and gripped it tight. "You want to know what sick actually looks like?"
"Stop yelling at her," David warned.
"I have acute leukemia," I said.
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
David stared at me. The anger drained from his face for a split second, replaced by utter confusion.
"My organs are failing," I continued, my hands shaking as I held the diagnosis up. "I need a bone marrow transplant right now. The doctor gave me a few weeks to live."
Abby gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
David looked at the folder. He didn't reach for it. Instead, his jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed into slits of pure disgust.
"When did you become this pathetic?" he asked.
My arm dropped slightly. "What?"
"Faking cancer?" David scoffed. He shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "Are you really that desperate for my attention?"
"Look at the paper, David! It has my name on it. It's from City General!"
He swatted my hand away. The folder hit the linoleum floor, scattering the white pages across the room.
"I'm not looking at your forged documents," he growled. "Abby is actually dying. She is fighting for her life every single day. And you barge in here, making up a terminal illness just to steal her spotlight? To make her feel guilty?"
"David, make her leave," Abby cried, burying her face in her hands. "She's stressing me out. My chest hurts."
"I'm not lying!" I shouted, tears finally breaking through my defenses. "I am dying!"
"Get out, Bianca," David ordered, pointing a rigid finger at the door. "You sicken me. Don't ever contact me again."
He turned his back on me and wrapped his arms around Abby, pulling her into a tight embrace.
I stared at the man I loved. He didn't even look over his shoulder.
I left the papers on the floor. I turned around and walked out of the room.
The automatic doors of the hospital lobby slid open, letting the cold New York wind hit my face. I wrapped my thin jacket tighter around my ribs. The pain in my side flared, a sharp reminder of the car accident.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out. The screen flashed with my mother's name.
I swiped to answer. "Mom?"
A loud, guttural sob pierced my ear. "Bianca."
"Mom, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"
"It's over," she wept. "The company is gone."
I stopped walking. "What do you mean gone? What about the new investors?"
"They pulled out this morning," she explained, her voice cracking. "All of them. The bank called in the loans an hour ago. We have zero capital left. We're bankrupt."
"Where is Dad?" I demanded.
"He collapsed in the boardroom," she cried. "He hasn't slept in four days trying to fix this mess. The ambulance just took him to Mount Sinai. He's in the ICU, Bianca. We're going to lose the house. We have nothing."
The sidewalk spun beneath my feet.
"I'll be right there," I whispered. "I'll figure something out."
"Hurry," she begged, before the line went dead.
I lowered the phone. The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. I couldn't figure anything out. I was dying. My fiancé had abandoned me for a fraud. My family was ruined. My father was fighting for his life.
I had nothing left to give.
I wandered aimlessly down the street, the neon signs of the city blurring into streaks of color. The cold wind ripped through my clothes, but I barely felt it. My soul felt completely hollow.
A green metal trash can sat on the corner of 5th Avenue.
I pulled the spare copy of my hospital discharge papers from my pocket. The bold black letters mocked me. Acute leukemia.
What was the point of treatment? Why fight for a few extra weeks in a world that had completely destroyed me?
I held the papers over the trash can.
A low hum vibrated through the pavement.
A sleek, custom-built black Rolls-Royce glided to a stop right in front of me. The tires barely made a sound against the asphalt. It blocked the crosswalk entirely.
The tinted rear window lowered with a soft hum.
The streetlights illuminated the man sitting in the backseat.
Silas Blackwood.
Everyone in New York knew that face. He possessed a sharp, unforgiving jawline and eyes as cold as black ice. He was the ruthless billionaire who controlled half the city's real estate and crushed his rivals without a second thought. A man who operated entirely in the shadows.
His dark gaze locked onto my face, then drifted down to the medical papers trembling in my fist. He looked exactly like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.
He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't offer a polite greeting.
"Get in the car," Silas commanded.
"I don't know you," I said, taking a step back.
"Get in," he repeated, his tone dropping into a dangerous, magnetic rumble. "From now on, your life belongs to me."
Did I have a choice, or was I just trading one nightmare for another?
