The morning sun hit Helena's face like a slap. She was in her childhood bedroom at the Lawrence house. Her mother, Mrs. Lawrence, was shaking her shoulder, her nails digging into Helena's skin.
"He's not answering!" her mother shrieked. "Helena, wake up! Authur isn't answering his phone!"
Helena sat up, her head throbbing. The clock read 8:00 AM. The wedding was at 10:00.
"Maybe he's still showering," Helena muttered, rubbing her temples.
The room was filled with people. Makeup artists, hair stylists, and a seamstress holding the Vera Wang gown that cost more than Helena's medical school tuition. They all looked uncomfortable, eyes darting to the floor.
Helena's phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a restricted number.
She picked it up. "Hello?"
"Good morning, my little doctor." Authur's voice was smooth, mocking, and completely sober.
Helena signaled for her mother to be quiet. "Where are you? The car is here."
"I'm thinking about not coming," Authur said. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"You like playing doctor so much? You like diagnosing people in my closet?" Authur chuckled darkly. "Then wear your uniform. Wear your scrubs to the altar. The blue ones. And make sure they look... authentic. Like you just came from a trauma."
Helena gripped the phone. "You want me to wear scrubs to St. Patrick's Cathedral? You want to turn the wedding into a circus?"
"It's already a circus, Helena. I'm just the ringmaster. Do it, or I leave you at the altar. And your father's company goes belly up by lunch."
The line went dead.
Mrs. Lawrence was hyperventilating. "What did he say? Is he coming?"
Helena stood up. She looked at the white lace dress. Then she looked at her reflection. She looked tired. She looked like a victim.
"He's coming," Helena said. Her voice was cold steel. "Get out."
She pushed the stylist aside. "I don't need the dress."
She dialed a number. "Sarah? It's Helena. I need a favor. I need a set of scrubs. And bring me a unit of O-neg simulation blood from the training lab. The kind that oxidizes properly. And activate the 'wedding gift' protocol. Timed for the vows. Now."
One hour later.
The limousine pulled up to the massive stone steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The sidewalks were packed with paparazzi. The flashbulbs were a blinding strobe light storm.
The door opened.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. It wasn't a gasp of awe. It was a gasp of confusion.
Helena stepped out. She wasn't wearing white silk. She was wearing shapeless, navy blue cotton scrubs. On her feet were worn running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
And on the front of her shirt, splashing across her chest and stomach, was a stark, terrifying stain of darkening crimson that looked disturbingly real.
Mrs. Lawrence, still in the car, covered her face with her hands and refused to come out.
The reporters went wild. "Is that blood?" "Was there an accident?" "Is this a protest?"
Helena didn't look at the cameras. She looked straight ahead at the massive bronze doors of the church. She walked with her head high, her shoulders back. She walked like she was entering the ER to save a life, not a church to end her freedom.
Inside, the organ music faltered. Five hundred heads turned. The elite of New York society stared, mouths agape.
Helena walked down the aisle. The silence was absolute, heavy and judgmental. She saw Authur standing at the altar.
He was wearing a tuxedo, but his tie was crooked. He watched her approach, his eyes widening. He had expected her to refuse. He had expected her to call off the wedding. He hadn't expected her to call his bluff.
She stopped beside him. She smelled of rubbing alcohol and the faint, coppery tang of the simulant.
Authur leaned in, his voice a hiss. "You actually did it. You look like a butcher."
"I look like a surgeon," Helena corrected, facing the priest. "Let's get this over with."
