Ayleen dragged her suitcase into a ridiculously trendy cocktail bar downtown. The kind of place where money and misery went to get drunk together.
She found an empty stool in a dark corner of the bar and ordered the most expensive whiskey they had. Neat.
The air was thick with the sound of forced laughter and the clinking of glasses. She was an island of quiet despair in an ocean of manufactured joy. She didn't belong, and for the first time in four years, she didn't care.
The first glass went down in one long, searing swallow. The burn in her throat was a welcome distraction from the fire in her chest.
Her phone buzzed on the bar. It was her best friend, Jaida.
"Ayleen? Where are you? Are you okay?" Jaida's voice was a frantic lifeline.
"I'm celebrating," Ayleen said, her own voice raspy and unfamiliar. "Celebrating my freedom."
"You don't sound like you're celebrating. You sound like you're dying. Don't move, I'm coming to get you. Keep your phone on."
Ayleen ended the call and signaled the bartender for another. She traced the condensation on the second glass with a numb finger.
The phone buzzed again. A local number she didn't recognize. Probably Don's lawyer, or a reporter he'd sicced on her. She silenced the call without a second thought.
In an office across town, a legal consultant for the Hope Hill clinic paced his floor. "She's not picking up," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
He dialed again. On the bar, Ayleen's phone screen lit up, then went dark. She was already halfway through her third whiskey.
The alcohol was beginning to work its magic. The sharp edges of her pain were starting to blur. The noise of the bar faded to a distant hum.
A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily with the back of her sleeve.
The clinic's lawyer, now desperate, sent a long text message. Ms. Ramirez, this is an urgent matter from Hope Hill Clinic regarding the results of your recent procedure. Please contact us immediately. There is a critical discrepancy that needs your attention.
The message notification flashed on her screen for a second. But the battery icon was a sliver of red. Before the full text could load, the screen went black.
The phone was dead. And with it, the message that would have changed everything.
Ayleen pushed herself off the stool, the room tilting precariously. She stumbled toward the restroom, bumping into a man in a tailored suit. He shot her a dirty look. She just smiled a vague, foolish smile and mumbled an apology.
In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She looked like a stranger. She splashed cold water on her face, but it did nothing to wash away the smell of whiskey and failure.
When she returned to the bar, a group of men had taken her seat, their predatory smiles making her skin crawl. She didn't have the energy to fight. She just grabbed her purse and headed for the exit.
The cold night air hit her like a slap. Her stomach heaved. She leaned against a lamppost, gagging, but there was nothing left to come up.
She rested her head against the cool metal, the neon signs across the street blurring into a kaleidoscope of meaningless color.
A black Maybach, silent as a shark, turned the corner.
Through the one-way glass, Burdette Guerrero saw her. A lone, pathetic figure, slumped against a lamppost, looking cheap and drunk.
"That's her," Sam confirmed from the opposite seat. "Ayleen Ramirez. Looks like she's had a rough night."
A cold, dismissive sneer formed on Burdette's lips. "Rough night? She's celebrating. Look at her. It's disgusting."
