The sharp, chemical stench of rubbing alcohol burned the inside of Bridget's nose.
She squeezed her eyes shut against a blinding ache in her skull. Her head throbbed in time with her pulse.
She slowly opened her eyes. The sterile white ceiling of a Mount Sinai VIP room came into focus. Thick gauze wrapped tightly around her forehead. A heavy ice pack was strapped to her swollen right ankle, throbbing in tandem with her skull. A clear IV tube was taped to the back of her right hand, pulling painfully at her skin with every shallow breath.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Leather dress shoes. Two men.
Bridget's muscles locked. She let her eyelids fall shut, slowing her breathing to the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of a coma patient.
The heavy door clicked open. The footsteps stopped at the foot of her bed.
The scent of bespoke sandalwood cologne drifted over her. Jayson. It mixed with the stale odor of a Cuban cigar. Dex Vance, Jayson's best friend and shadow.
"The crash was bad, man," Dex muttered, his voice low. "You're not staying the night?"
Jayson let out a short, breathy laugh. It was entirely devoid of warmth.
"Stay?" Jayson scoffed. "And do what? Watch her sleep? She's useless awake, Dex. She's just a party girl who knows how to swipe a black card."
"She's your wife of four years," Dex pointed out. "You have to play the part."
"I play the part because I need her father's proxy vote on the board," Jayson snapped. He adjusted his cuffs, the gold links clinking faintly. "If it weren't for Archer Powell, I would have thrown her out years ago. She brings zero commercial value to the IPO."
Bridget's lungs burned. She didn't breathe.
"Every time I have to touch her in bed, it feels like a corporate obligation," Jayson added, his voice dripping with disgust. "It makes me sick to my stomach."
Beneath the thin hospital blanket, Bridget's left hand curled into a fist. Her manicured nails dug so deeply into her palm that the skin broke.
A single, freezing tear slipped from the corner of her eye and soaked into the pillowcase.
Dex checked his watch. "It's late. Golda and the kid are waiting for you at the Tribeca place."
Jayson's tone shifted instantly. The ice melted into soft velvet. "Pippa didn't see me before bed. She gets scared. I need to go read to her."
They turned around. The door clicked shut.
The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor.
The single, freezing tear was not one of sorrow, but of crystallization. It was the moment four years of suppressed doubts and quiet humiliations hardened into a diamond-sharp purpose.
Bridget's eyes snapped open.
The tears were gone. The devastation that had crushed her chest was gone. In its place was a cold, absolute void.
She gritted her teeth against the nausea of her concussion and forced herself to sit up. She threw off the white blanket.
She reached over with her left hand, grabbed the plastic hub of the IV needle in her right hand, and ripped it out.
Blood welled up instantly. It dripped down her knuckles and splattered onto the pristine white sheets like blooming red flowers. She didn't feel it.
She leaned over and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks. She held down the power button.
The Apple logo flickered to life. She opened her contacts and tapped Sloane Adler's name.
Sloane answered on the first ring. "Bridget! Oh my god, the news said you crashed-"
"Stop talking," Bridget rasped. Her voice sounded like crushed glass.
Sloane fell silent.
"Call Julian Cromwell," Bridget ordered, staring at the blood dripping from her hand. "The divorce attorney."
"Bridget, what happened?"
"I'm divorcing him," Bridget said, her voice dropping to a dead, hollow whisper. "And on the day his company rings the bell for the IPO, I am going to burn his entire life to the ground."
