Eloise paid the cab driver with her last few crumpled bills. She pulled her baseball cap low over her eyes and pushed through the doors of Dr. Fletcher's clinic.
She sat rigidly in the chair opposite his desk, staring blankly at the stack of consent forms.
Dr. Fletcher didn't hand her a pen. He sat back, his face grim, holding her medical file.
"Eloise, I cannot let you sign these without making you understand the reality of your body," he said, his voice heavy.
He opened the file. "For three years, you have been on aggressive hormone regulation to prepare your body for conception. The intense medical protocols have left your uterine lining dangerously thin. If we perform a surgical abortion right now, the risk of massive hemorrhaging is severe. Furthermore, the trauma to your uterus will almost certainly guarantee permanent infertility."
Eloise's fingers trembled. She pressed her hand against her stomach. "I don't care," she lied, her voice cracking. "I'll take the risk."
Dr. Fletcher sighed, rubbing his temples. "Even if you accept the physical risks, New York law and our clinic's protocol require a mandatory psychological consultation and a forty-eight-hour waiting period before we can proceed with a high-risk termination."
Forty-eight hours.
Eloise closed her eyes. Bronson's private investigators would find her in less than twenty-four. She was trapped.
Dr. Fletcher slid a bottle of anti-nausea vitamins across the desk. "Go somewhere safe. Think about this."
Eloise stumbled out of the clinic. The cold wind whipped against her face. She walked until she found a small, rundown corner cafe. She ordered a cup of hot water and sat in the darkest booth in the back.
She opened her laptop. She was out of money. She was out of time. She needed a weapon. She needed someone bigger than Bronson.
She opened an old email account she hadn't used since she quit acting. It was flooded with spam. But pinned at the top of her inbox was an unread message.
Sender: Gardner Whitfield.
Gardner. They had co-starred in an indie film five years ago. He was a quiet, intense actor who kept to himself.
She clicked the email. It was sent a week ago.
Eloise, long time no see. I'm in New York recently and happened to hear some things about your husband's business tactics. He doesn't seem to be who the media portrays. If you ever need a friend, call this number.
Eloise frowned. Why would an indie actor think he could help her against a billionaire?
She opened a new tab and typed in Gardner Whitfield.
The search results were mostly old IMDb pages and outdated entertainment blogs. They listed his indie film credits from years ago and a few vague articles mentioning his sudden retirement from acting. There was absolutely nothing recent. Eloise stared at the screen, her brow furrowing in deep confusion. Gardner seemed to have completely vanished from the public eye. Why would a washed-up, retired indie actor think he could offer her a way out? How could he possibly stand up against a tech billionaire like Bronson? Yet, desperation clawed at her throat. He was the only person who had reached out.
Her hands shook as she dialed the private number from the email.
It rang exactly once.
"Eloise," a deep, magnetic voice answered. The sound vibrated with a calm, steady assurance. "I've been waiting for you to contact me."
