"Draw it, or I'll make sure you never work in medicine again," Denton sneered.
The nurse trembled but refused, pulling the needle out. Denton didn't waste another second arguing. He snatched the blood bags from the tray and sprinted toward the operating room, not sparing a single glance at his wife, who was slumping over in the chair, barely conscious.
The nurse pressed a thick cotton swab against the puncture wound on Emma's arm, her eyes filled with pity.
Emma felt the entire room spinning wildly. A high-pitched ringing echoed in her ears.
She gathered the last microscopic drop of strength in her body and shoved the nurse's hands away.
Using the cold tiled wall for support, she dragged her feet, inching her way out of the emergency department.
At the end of the hall, she saw Denton pacing outside the surgical doors, completely oblivious to her existence.
A hollow, broken laugh escaped Emma's pale lips. Her heart was finally, completely dead.
She stumbled out of the hospital doors. Heavy snow was falling over the city. The freezing wind cut right through her thin clothes, chilling her to the bone.
She flagged down a passing yellow cab. She gave the driver the address of a cheap, rundown motel near Diego's office. She knew she couldn't go back to the penthouse.
In the back of the cab, another sharp, pulling cramp hit her stomach. She curled into a ball, shaking violently.
With trembling fingers, she dialed Dr. Cromwell's private number. She sobbed as she described the blood loss and the cramping.
The doctor's voice was sharp with panic. "Mrs. Chaney, you need strict bed rest immediately. You are on the verge of a miscarriage."
When she reached the motel, she swallowed the emergency progesterone pills the doctor had prescribed. She curled up on the damp, moldy mattress, not even taking off her coat.
She spent the entire night in a cold sweat, drifting in and out of consciousness, her hands never leaving her stomach.
The next morning, harsh sunlight pierced through the broken blinds. Emma jolted awake.
She dragged herself to the filthy bathroom. She checked her underwear. No blood.
She collapsed against the toilet bowl, letting out a ragged breath of pure relief.
She looked in the cracked mirror. She looked like a corpse. Her skin was translucent, her lips blue.
But she had to go to the office. Diego was fighting a war because of her. She couldn't abandon him.
She slathered thick foundation over her face and applied a bright red lipstick to fake a pulse. She forced herself to stand.
At nine o'clock, Emma dragged herself to the lobby of Diego's building. She made it exactly three steps past the revolving doors when a massive wave of vertigo hit her brain.
She fumbled for her phone, managing to hit Diego's speed dial before the world went black. Her legs gave out, and she pitched forward toward the hard marble floor.
Before she hit the ground, strong arms caught her. Diego, who had rushed down from the elevators, dropped his files and caught her waist. He felt how terrifyingly light she was, and how her skin felt like ice.
"Emma!" he yelled, panic in his voice. As her sleeve rode up, he saw the massive, ugly purple bruise covering her inner arm from the forced blood draw.
Rage and heartbreak flooded Diego's eyes. He knew someone had hurt her.
He scooped her up into his arms, turning toward the elevators to take her to the hospital.
Emma's eyes fluttered open. She weakly grabbed the lapel of his suit.
"No," she rasped, shaking her head frantically. "Don't... no hospitals. Please."
Outside the glass doors of the office, a man in a gray jacket raised a long-lens camera.
The shutter clicked rapidly.
Within seconds, the high-resolution photo was transmitted directly to Denton Chaney's phone.
