The man in the black trench coat caught me before my knees hit the floor. He carried me to a new ward, arranged for a private nurse, and left without offering his name.
The next morning, sunlight pierced the hospital blinds. The heavy oak door clicked open.
Isabella walked in, carrying a silver tray.
"I brought you something," she said, setting a porcelain tureen on my tray table.
"Get out," I rasped.
"We need to talk, Serena." She lifted the lid. Steam curled into the air. "I had the kitchen prepare a French consommé."
I turned my face away. "I don't want your soup."
"We were best friends," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Since our days at the Swiss boarding school. Don't let a misunderstanding ruin ten years of sisterhood."
"You slept with my husband," I said flatly. "There is no misunderstanding."
She wrung her hands, her diamond rings catching the light. "The Davenport family is vicious. You know how the plutocrats operate. When Victor's yacht exploded three years ago, they never even found a piece of his bone. The board wanted to strip my shares. I was a widow with nothing but ashes."
"So you seduced his twin brother."
"Vincent has Victor's face!" Tears spilled over her lashes. "Looking at him eases my grief. He protects me."
I looked down at the golden broth. A strange, metallic sweetness hit my nose. A scent I would never forget.
My stomach violently twisted.
"What is in this?" I demanded.
"Just beef marrow and herbs," she said softly. "And a supplement Vincent gave me."
I snatched the silver spoon, dragging it through the clear liquid. A faint blue shimmer swirled in the fat.
"The cellular repair serum," I whispered.
"Oh, you recognize it?" Isabella smiled, wiping a tear from her flawless cheek. "Vincent is spoiling me. He bought out the entire European black market supply."
My blood ran cold. "All of it?"
"Childbirth ruined my complexion," she sighed, touching her jawline. "And my energy levels were so low. He spent ten million dollars to ensure I recover perfectly and get my glow back."
The spoon slipped from my fingers. It clattered against the porcelain bowl.
Three years ago. The torrential downpour outside the Davenport Medical Institute.
"My grandfather was dying," I said, my voice shaking.
Isabella frowned. "Serena, let's not bring up the past."
"His heart was failing!" I yelled, pushing myself up against the pillows. Pain flared in my stitched abdomen, but I ignored it. "I knelt in the freezing rain for four hours. I begged Vincent to use his medical clearance to buy just one vial of this exact serum."
The door swung open. Vincent strode in, wearing a crisp navy suit.
"Stop shouting," he ordered. "You'll tear your sutures."
I kept my eyes locked on Isabella. "Do you know what he told me?"
Isabella shrank behind Vincent.
"He told me my grandfather was eighty years old," I spat. "He said using the serum on a dying man was a waste of medical resources."
Vincent crossed his arms. "It was. The serum wouldn't have cured his heart disease. It would only have prolonged his suffering."
"It would have given him another year!" I grabbed the edge of the tray. "A year for me to say goodbye. I offered you my entire trust fund for one dose. But you refused."
"I made a clinical judgment," Vincent said coldly.
"And what is the clinical judgment here?" I pointed at the soup. "She has a pale face from having your bastard child, so you spend ten million dollars to clear out the black market?"
"Don't speak about our son that way," Vincent warned, stepping closer to the bed.
"You let my grandfather suffocate in a hospital bed!" I screamed. "And yesterday, you gutted me to kill my baby. All to protect her?"
"Isabella is the future of the Davenport empire," he stated. "Her health is paramount. Your grandfather was a retired florist."
The sheer cruelty in his eyes paralyzed me.
I grabbed the porcelain tureen.
"Serena, no!" Isabella shrieked.
I hurled the boiling liquid directly at her.
Vincent moved fast, shielding her with his body. The scalding broth splashed across his chest, ruining his silk tie and soaking his shirt. The bowl shattered against the wall, sending shards flying across the room.
"Are you insane?" Vincent roared, brushing the hot liquid off his suit.
"Get out of my room," I snarled.
Isabella peeked around his shoulder, completely unharmed. She stared at the broken porcelain and the wasted serum pooling on the floor.
"You shouldn't have done that, Serena," she whispered, her doe eyes hardening into something vicious. "That was my medicine."
Vincent grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wiped his neck. His jaw clenched tight.
"I tried to handle this peacefully," he said. "I offered you a generous divorce settlement."
"I don't want your money," I said.
"Good," he sneered. "Because you're getting nothing."
He pulled a folded document from his inner pocket and tossed it onto my blanket.
"Sign the papers," he demanded. "Or I'll make sure you leave this hospital in handcuffs for assaulting a Davenport."
I picked up the document. It wasn't a divorce agreement.
It was a psychiatric hold order.
"You're committing me?" I asked, the words tasting like ash.
"You just attacked my sister-in-law," he said, his face an emotionless mask. "You're clearly suffering from severe postpartum psychosis."
"I didn't have a baby!"
"The doctors will disagree," he replied. "Sign the divorce papers, surrender your shares, and I'll let you walk away. Refuse, and you spend the rest of your life in the locked ward."
He turned and guided Isabella toward the door.
Before they stepped into the hall, a gloved hand caught the doorframe.
"Actually, Dr. Davenport," a deep voice echoed from the corridor. "My client won't be signing anything today."
The man in the black trench coat stepped into the room, holding a leather briefcase.
