The needle hovered over his skin. She took a breath, then pressed the tip in.
The man didn't scream. His muscles locked up, hard as stone under the pressure of his own hand, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. Sweat dripped from his jawline, landing on Helena's wrist.
She worked quickly, her movements clumsy but determined. The first stitch pulled through the torn flesh, and she fought the urge to gag. The second was cleaner. By the third, her hands had stopped shaking.
She used the rest of the velvet strip to secure the makeshift pressure bandage over the fresh sutures, wrapping it tightly around his torso. It was a crude job, a battlefield patch, but it would slow the bleeding.
Helena sat back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. The smell of blood was overwhelming in the small space.
"That will hold for an hour, maybe less," she said, her voice low. "You need a hospital. You need a transfusion. And a real doctor to redo this mess. "
"No hospital," the man rasped. He pushed himself up, his movements stiff and guarded. "No records."
He leaned against the stall wall, towering over her even in his weakened state. He fumbled with his left cuff. With shaking fingers, he undid a platinum cufflink.
He reached out and grabbed Helena's hand. His palm was calloused, hot. He pressed the metal object into her skin.
"Collateral," he said. His voice was rough, scraping against the air like sandpaper. "I pay my debts. I'll find you."
Helena tried to pull her hand away. "I don't want your money."
He didn't listen. He pushed past her, stumbling slightly, and shoved the stall door open. He moved with a terrifying determination, disappearing out the back exit of the club before she could say another word.
Helena stood alone in the stall. She looked down at the cufflink. It was heavy, solid platinum. Engraved on the face was a crest she didn't recognize-a hawk clutching a key. It looked old. It looked dangerous.
She shoved it into her pocket. She washed the blood from her hands, scrubbing until her skin was raw. She fixed her dress as best she could and walked out.
The city air felt different now. Sharper.
She didn't go back to the club. She gave the taxi driver the address of Harrison's penthouse.
When she arrived, the apartment was silent. Harrison hadn't come home. He was likely still at the club, or perhaps he had taken Sienna to another one of his properties.
Helena didn't feel angry. She felt light.
She went to the bedroom and pulled out two large suitcases. She packed efficiently. Her art history textbooks. Her encrypted hard drive. Her comfortable sweaters. The books on financial crime she had bought before she met Harrison.
She left the Birkin bags. She left the diamond tennis bracelet. She left the silk dresses he liked her to wear.
She walked to the entryway. On the large, ornate mirror, she took a tube of red lipstick and wrote in bold letters: KEYS ON THE TABLE.
She left the penthouse key on the console table next to a vase of dying lilies.
Downstairs, the doorman rushed to help her with the bags. "Miss Hensley? Are you traveling?"
"It's Doctor Hensley, actually," she corrected him, her voice firm. "And I'm moving."
The Uber took her across the bridge to Brooklyn. The skyline of Manhattan receded, a glittering fortress she was voluntarily exiled from.
Whitney was waiting on the stoop of the brownstone, wrapped in a fuzzy pink bathrobe.
"You actually did it?" Whitney asked, her eyes wide.
"I did."
They hauled the suitcases up three flights of stairs. Whitney's apartment was small, cluttered, and smelled of vanilla candles and takeout. It was perfect.
Helena sat on the worn sofa. Whitney poured two glasses of cheap Merlot.
"He's a pig," Whitney said, raising her glass. "A rich, entitled pig."
Helena swirled the wine. "I feel like I just excised a tumor."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the platinum cufflink. She held it up to the light. The platinum gleamed, cold and indifferent.
"Whoa," Whitney leaned in. "That looks expensive. Did you steal it from Harrison?"
"No," Helena said. "A payment from a client."
She tossed the cufflink into a junk drawer filled with old batteries and takeout menus. She didn't want to look at it. It reminded her of the blood.
Outside, on the street below, a black sedan with tinted windows rolled slowly past the building. It paused for a moment, the engine idling low, before gliding away into the night.
