Erica POV
The hospital room was a blinding, sterile white.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
My throat felt raw, stripped bare, as if I had swallowed a handful of rusted razor blades.
A nurse bustled in, her eyes fixed on the monitors rather than me. She checked my vitals with efficient, cold hands.
She wouldn't look me in the eye.
"You can leave in an hour," she murmured, adjusting the flow of the IV drip. "Mr. Holden has settled the bill."
Of course he had.
Money was the only bandage that family knew how to apply. A golden plaster over a gaping wound.
I forced myself to sit up. The room tilted dangerously, my head spinning like a top.
Steadying myself, I looked at the bedside table where my few belongings had been stacked.
My phone. My purse.
But the table felt too empty. Something was missing.
The brass urn.
I had carried it with me everywhere since Grandma died. It was heavy, cool to the touch, and the only anchor I had left in this violent storm.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest, overriding the pain.
"Where is it?" I asked. My voice was a broken rasp.
The nurse blinked, feigning confusion. "Where is what?"
"The urn," I managed, louder this time. "The brass jar. It was right here."
She shook her head, taking a step back. "I haven't seen anything like that. Maybe... maybe Mr. Holden took it for safekeeping?"
The lie was written plainly in her evasive gaze.
I didn't wait for permission. I reached down and ripped the IV catheter out of my arm.
Blood welled up instantly, a bright red bead blooming against my pale skin.
I didn't feel it. I felt only the hollow ache where the urn should be.
I grabbed my coat.
I knew exactly who had it. It wasn't Mr. Holden. He wouldn't care enough to take it.
This had Bianca's fingerprints all over it.
I didn't go to the penthouse. I knew where the circus was in town today.
I went to the Plaza Hotel.
The Holdens had rented the entire top floor for the wedding preparations—a staging ground for their perfect little pageant.
I stormed past the doorman, ignoring his protest. I ignored the receptionist calling after me, her voice fading as the elevator doors slid shut.
I took the lift straight to the penthouse suite.
The door was unlocked. Arrogance often left doors open.
I pushed inside.
Bianca was standing by the open balcony doors, framed by the city skyline.
The wind whipped her hair around her perfectly made-up face.
She was holding the urn.
She looked like a petulant child toying with a stolen plaything.
"I was wondering when you would wake up," she said, her voice carrying easily over the wind.
She turned the urn over in her manicured hands, inspecting it.
"It is heavy," she mused. "Heavy with disappointment, I assume."
"Give it to me," I commanded.
I walked toward her, though my legs were trembling with exhaustion.
"Anthony said you are allergic to peanuts," Bianca said, ignoring my approach. "I, however, am allergic to dust. And this..."
She held the vessel out further.
"...this is just a jar of dust."
She dangled it over the balcony railing.
We were twenty stories up.
Below us, the city was a grid of unforgiving concrete and crawling traffic.
"Bianca, no," I pleaded, the fight draining out of me, replaced by pure terror.
I hated begging. It tasted like ash.
But for Grandma, I would beg. I would crawl.
"Please. It is all I have."
Bianca smiled.
It was the same cold, vacant smile she had worn when she locked me in that closet freshman year.
"You have nothing," she said softly. "You are nothing."
She opened her fingers.
The brass urn caught the sunlight for a split second—a final, golden flash.
Then it fell.
I screamed.
I ran to the railing, gripping the cold metal until my knuckles turned white.
I watched it plummet.
It hit the pavement below.
From this height, it didn't even make a sound. No crash. No shatter.
It just vanished into the grey oblivion.
I gripped the railing, staring down.
For a second, I wanted to jump after it. I wanted to scrape her off the sidewalk and hold her one last time.
Then, the grief hardened into something molten.
I turned back to Bianca.
My vision swam with red.
I lunged at her.
I didn't have a plan. I just wanted to hurt her. I wanted to wipe that satisfied smirk off her face forever.
Bianca didn't fight back.
Instead, she threw herself onto the floor with practiced grace.
She ripped the shoulder of her dress with a violent tear.
Then she started screaming.
"Help! Anthony! She's killing me!"
The door to the bedroom burst open.
Anthony and Emmanuel ran in, breathless.
They saw the tableau: Me, standing over Bianca, hands clenched into fists. Bianca, cowering on the floor, her dress torn, tears streaming down her face.
They saw the "fear" in her eyes.
They didn't look at me.
They didn't ask what happened.
They made their choice.
