Drake's forearm muscles corded like thick steel cables.
He absorbed the dead weight of Bridget's collapsing body instantly. His large hand clamped securely around her waist, his other arm bracing her shoulders, stopping her downward momentum just an inch before her skull could shatter against the edge of the hard wood table.
The impact of her falling against him forced a sharp exhale from his chest.
He looked down. The disgust that had been on his face a second ago was entirely wiped out, replaced by a tight, dark knot of panic. Her skin was radiating heat. The fever burned right through the thin fabric of her shirt, searing against his palms. Her face was flushed a deep, unnatural red, her head lolling back against his bicep.
A piercing scream ripped through the house.
Corda burst through the kitchen curtain, holding a serving spoon. She saw Bridget unconscious in Drake's arms. The spoon slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor, followed immediately by the ceramic plate she had been holding, which shattered into dozens of sharp white pieces across the linoleum.
Drake didn't hesitate. He didn't offer comforting words. He moved with the brutal efficiency of a soldier under fire.
He scooped Bridget up completely, lifting her into his chest. He carried her out of the cramped dining room and dropped her onto the worn corduroy sofa in the living room. He didn't set her down gently. He deposited her like a heavy sack of cargo, his movements sharp and entirely devoid of tenderness.
The second her back hit the cushions, Drake straightened up. He immediately took two large steps backward.
His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked ready to snap. He put absolute, rigid distance between himself and the sick girl, acting as if the air around her was infected.
Corda fell to her knees beside the sofa, her hands hovering over Bridget's burning forehead, sobbing hysterically.
"Alcohol," Drake barked.
His voice was a whip crack of pure ice in the chaotic room. Corda flinched, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.
"Get rubbing alcohol," Drake ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Wipe down her arms and legs. Bring her core temperature down physically. Then call a doctor."
Corda scrambled to her feet, her hands shaking violently as she rushed toward the bathroom to find the medical supplies.
Drake didn't look at Bridget again. He turned his back on the sofa and strode toward the front door. His heavy boots hit the floorboards with finality.
Through the heavy fog of her fever, Bridget felt the sudden absence of heat. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood that had anchored her a moment ago was rapidly fading. Her body ached with an exhaustion so profound it felt like her bones were dissolving, yet her mind fought to cling to the one solid presence in the chaos. Her heavy eyelids fluttered. She tried to lift her hand to grab the sleeve of his jacket, but her fingers only caught the cold draft of air he left in his wake.
The heavy wooden front door slammed shut. The glass panes in the windows rattled violently from the force.
The sound was a bucket of ice water poured directly over Bridget's burning brain. He was gone.
The kitchen curtain was yanked aside. Brenda walked into the living room, holding a glass of water. She stopped and stared at Bridget lying on the sofa.
Brenda let out a loud, grating scoff.
"Perfect timing," Brenda sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "The princess decides to play sick right when it's time to clean up. More medical bills for us to pay."
Bridget forced her eyes open. Her vision swam, the edges of the room blurring together from the high temperature. But Brenda's sharp, bitter face came into perfect, terrifying focus.
Corda ran back into the room, clutching a brown plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. She heard Brenda's comment.
Corda's face turned purple with rage. Her entire body shook. "Shut your mouth, Brenda!" she screamed, her voice tearing at her throat.
Brenda rolled her eyes dramatically. She walked over to the chipped coffee table and slammed the glass of water down hard. The water sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto the cuff of Bridget's sleeve.
The cold water soaked into the fabric, chilling Bridget's skin.
The twenty-first-century financial analyst inside Bridget's mind woke up. The sheer disrespect, the blatant hostility-it bypassed her physical weakness and ignited a cold, calculated fury in her chest.
She gripped the rough fabric of the sofa armrest. She pushed her weight onto her elbows, forcing her heavy, leaden body to sit up. Her muscles screamed in protest, her head spinning wildly.
Brenda saw her moving. She took a quick step forward. Under the guise of helping, Brenda placed her hand heavily on Bridget's shoulder and shoved her back down against the cushions.
Brenda leaned in close. Her breath smelled of stale coffee.
"If you think you're going to lay around and leech off my husband's paycheck," Brenda hissed in a low, vicious whisper, "I will throw your pathetic ass out on the street myself."
Bridget stopped fighting the pressure on her shoulder. She let her head rest against the sofa.
She tilted her chin up. Her eyes, bloodshot and burning with fever, locked onto Brenda's. There was zero fear in Bridget's stare. It was the dead, hollow look of an apex predator assessing a very stupid piece of prey.
"Do not," Bridget rasped, her voice a broken, gravelly whisper that cut through the room, "mistake my silence for weakness."
Brenda physically recoiled. The sheer malice in Bridget's eyes was so intense it felt like a physical blow. Brenda's grip on Bridget's shoulder loosened for a fraction of a second.
Corda shoved Brenda hard from the side.
"Get away from her!" Corda shrieked, placing her body like a shield between her daughter and her daughter-in-law.
A screaming match erupted. Brenda yelled about money, Corda yelled about family.
Bridget tuned out the noise. She lay perfectly still on the sofa, her brain running a rapid, ruthless audit of her current situation.
This house was a toxic asset. Brenda was an active liability. As long as Bridget and Corda lived under this roof, they would be subjected to this emotional and financial drain.
Corda uncapped the alcohol bottle. She poured it onto a rag and began frantically wiping Bridget's arms. The freezing liquid hitting her boiling skin made Bridget's entire body violently shudder.
But the shock of the cold cleared her mind completely.
Brenda cursed loudly, turned on her heel, and stomped back into the kitchen, intentionally ripping half the curtain off its rod as she passed.
Bridget reached out. Her hot fingers clamped down hard over Corda's shaking wrist, stopping the rag.
"Mom," Bridget said. Her voice was still a broken rasp, but every syllable carried the heavy, undeniable weight of iron. "We have to leave this house."
Corda froze. She stared at Bridget, her eyes wide, thinking the fever was making her daughter hallucinate.
Bridget turned her head. She looked out the window into the pitch-black night.
"We are leaving," Bridget repeated, her thumb pressing hard into Corda's pulse point.
She knew the absolute rule of corporate restructuring. To save the core business, you had to amputate the rotting limbs. It was time to cut Brenda out of their lives completely.
