Elise POV:
I tossed my phone onto the bedside table and grabbed the plastic television remote. I pointed it at the flat screen mounted on the opposite wall and hit the power button.
The screen flared to life, instantly tuning to the CNN financial channel. The bright red breaking news ticker at the bottom of the screen read: *Howard Group CEO Risks Life to Save Executive, Pre-Market Stock Surges 8%.*
My face remained an emotionless mask as I pressed the volume up button. Holden filled the screen, looking devastatingly handsome and appropriately rugged in his mud-splattered suit outside the emergency room.
He stared directly into the camera lenses of the gathered press, his expression grave and deeply emotional as he recounted the terrifying seconds before the Maybach slipped off the cliff.
"In a crisis, a leader doesn't think about himself," Holden lied smoothly, his voice a rich, resonant baritone. "Protecting the core members of my team is just instinct. Giana is vital to our future."
A reporter off-camera shouted, "Mr. Howard, what about your wife? We heard she was also in the vehicle!"
Holden barely blinked. He waved a dismissive hand. "Elise sustained a few minor scrapes. She is resting comfortably. My priority was securing the most vulnerable passenger first."
The broadcast cut away from his face to a rapid-fire montage of social media screenshots. Twitter and financial forums were exploding. Thousands of comments praised Holden as the ultimate, selfless boss.
Worse, a massive wave of netizens had already started shipping him and Giana, calling them the "Mr. & Mrs. Smith of Wall Street," praising their undeniable chemistry under fire.
I looked down at the massive, heavy plaster cast elevating my shattered leg, and then back at the TV. The sound of the anchor praising his heroism grated against my eardrums like broken glass.
A chilling realization washed over me. He wasn't just prioritizing his mistress; he was actively weaponizing my near-death experience. He was using the blood I bled in that car to fuel his PR machine and inflate his IPO valuation.
A dark, violent memory flashed through my mind. My father, standing in the ashes of his bankrupt company, abandoning my mother to face the creditors alone because she was no longer a "viable asset." The cycle of ruthless, capitalist betrayal was repeating itself perfectly.
A surge of pure, acidic rage erupted in my chest, burning away the last, pathetic shreds of grief. I slammed my thumb down on the power button, plunging the room into silence.
The only sound left was the slow, steady *drip, drip, drip* of the IV fluid feeding into my vein.
I glanced at the digital calendar on the wall. The Howard Group's massive annual gala was in exactly three days.
I knew exactly how this played out. Giana would walk into that ballroom wearing that stolen ring, bathing in the flashbulbs, effectively cementing her status as the new queen of his empire.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. I would absolutely not allow those two parasites to dance on the grave of my dignity.
I grabbed the edge of the heavy hospital blanket and violently threw it off my body. Gritting my teeth against the blinding pain, I planted my hands on the mattress and forced my torso upright.
The broken ribs screamed, sending a wave of nausea and cold sweat over my body, but my eyes were locked on the door with the feral intensity of a starving wolf.
I reached over with my left hand, grabbed the plastic hub of the IV needle embedded in my right hand, and ripped it out in one brutal motion. A thick stream of dark blood instantly welled up, dripping onto the clean white sheets.
I didn't even bother to grab a tissue. I reached over and smashed the red nurse call button.
Less than a minute later, a nurse burst into the room. She took one look at the blood smeared across my hand and the fierce, unyielding set of my jaw, and let out a loud gasp.
"Get me a clean set of clothes," I demanded, my voice tight with pain but completely steady. "Now."
The nurse shook her head frantically, her hands fluttering. "Mrs. Howard, absolutely not! You have multiple fractures and severe internal bruising. You cannot leave this bed!"
"I am leaving this hospital," I stated, my tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "Bring me the Against Medical Advice forms. I will sign every waiver you have. I assume full legal responsibility."
Seeing the absolute madness in my eyes, the nurse backed away slowly and bolted down the hall to fetch Dr. Evans.
Half an hour later, I was dressed in the loose cashmere sweater and sweatpants I had worn the night of the crash. I sat rigid in a metal wheelchair, my cast resting on the elevated leg support.
I held a pen in my trembling hand and aggressively signed my name at the bottom of a thick stack of AMA liability waivers, the nib of the pen nearly tearing through the paper.
Dr. Evans stood by the door, looking at my pale, sweating face with deep concern. "Please, Mrs. Howard. Remember what we discussed. The stress could cost you the pregnancy."
I dropped the pen on the desk. I placed my hand gently over my lower stomach, my eyes burning with a dark, terrifying resolve.
I grabbed the wheels of the chair and pushed myself forward, rolling out of the VIP suite without casting a single glance backward at the room of lies.
"I am done being your collateral damage."
