Carli looked down at Eleonora, who was pinned against the edge of the hospital bed.
Carli opened her Hermès bag. She pulled out a crisp white medical folder.
She shoved the paper right in front of Eleonora's face.
"Read it," Carli sneered. "This isn't just an abortion. It's a full hysterectomy. You'll never have a child again."
Eleonora's pupils dilated. Her eyes scanned the bottom of the page.
There, in bold black ink, was Butler's signature. The sharp, aggressive loops of his handwriting.
A physical pain ripped through Eleonora's chest. It felt like someone had reached into her ribcage and crushed her heart with their bare hands.
The despair vanished. Pure, burning rage took its place.
Adrenaline flooded her veins. Eleonora let out a guttural scream. She threw her weight forward, using all her strength.
She broke free from the bodyguard's grip.
She lunged at Carli. Her fingers tangled in Carli's perfectly styled blonde hair. She yanked hard.
Carli shrieked. Eleonora slammed Carli's head into the heavy metal heart monitor next to the bed.
The machine beeped wildly. Carli slumped to the floor, holding her bleeding forehead.
The bodyguard recovered. He stepped forward and delivered a sharp, brutal blow to her solar plexus, instantly knocking the wind out of her.
All the air left Eleonora's lungs. She collapsed onto the cold linoleum floor. She curled into a tight ball, wrapping both arms around her abdomen to protect her baby. She gasped for air, her vision spotting with black dots.
"Get the doctor!" Carli screamed from the floor. Blood dripped down her face. "Sedate this crazy bitch!"
The heavy room door pushed open.
A nurse walked in. She wore blue scrubs and a surgical mask. Her eyes were sharp and focused.
The nurse held a syringe filled with clear liquid. She walked quickly toward the bed.
As she passed the bodyguard, her hand moved in a blur. She jammed the thick needle directly into the side of the bodyguard's neck. She pushed the plunger down.
The man's eyes rolled back. He crashed to the floor like a felled tree.
Carli screamed in terror. She scrambled backward on her hands and knees toward the door.
The nurse moved past her, and with a swift, precise motion, pressed a pressure point on Carli's neck. Carli's eyes rolled back and she slumped to the floor, unconscious.
The nurse knelt beside Eleonora. She pulled her up by the arm.
"Allyson sent me," the nurse whispered in rapid French. "The escape route is clear. We have to move."
Eleonora nodded. She forced herself to stand, ignoring the sharp pain in her stomach.
The nurse moved quickly. She pulled a large jug of rubbing alcohol from the bottom shelf of a medical cart. She unscrewed the cap and splashed the clear liquid all over the bedsheets and the heavy window curtains.
"Cut your finger," the nurse ordered.
Eleonora didn't hesitate. She brought her index finger to her mouth and bit down hard. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
She pressed her bleeding finger onto the forged medical consent form. She smeared her blood across Butler's signature. She wiped the rest of the blood on the edge of the mattress.
The nurse pulled a silver windproof lighter from her pocket. She sparked the flame and tossed it onto the soaked curtains.
Fire erupted instantly. The flames climbed the fabric, eating the oxygen in the room. Thick, black smoke began to fill the air.
The hospital fire alarms shrieked. The sound was deafening. The ceiling sprinklers burst open, raining cold water down on them.
The nurse handed Eleonora an oversized gray janitor's uniform. Eleonora pulled it over her clothes.
They slipped out of the room into the chaotic hallway. Nurses and security guards were running in the opposite direction, shouting about the fire. No one looked twice at the two women in uniforms.
They pushed through the heavy doors of the emergency stairwell. They ran down the concrete steps. Eleonora held her stomach, gritting her teeth against the pain with every step.
They reached the second basement level. The morgue.
The air down here was freezing. The nurse walked over to a metal gurney holding a body covered in a white sheet.
She typed rapidly on the computer terminal next to the wall. She printed a new toe tag and swapped it with the one on the body.
"The system now says this Jane Doe is Eleonora Farrell," the nurse said.
Eleonora looked at the covered body. That body was about to burn in the fire upstairs. That body was going to be her.
She turned away. She walked out the back loading dock doors.
A large medical waste transport truck was idling in the alley. The back doors were open.
Eleonora climbed into the dark, foul-smelling back of the truck. The doors slammed shut, plunging her into darkness.
The truck pulled out of the alley, merging into the busy New York City traffic. Eleonora Farrell was dead.
One hour later.
Butler sat behind his massive desk in his office, his suit jacket discarded on the floor. A half-empty bottle of scotch stood on the table. He was staring blankly at the city lights, a strange unease settling in his chest, when his assistant, Jesse Meyer, burst into the room.
Jesse's face was chalk-white. He was sweating.
He leaned down and whispered into Butler's ear.
The glass in Butler's hand shattered. Amber liquid and blood spilled over his fingers.
He didn't say a word. He shoved his leather chair back so hard it crashed into the wall. He sprinted out of the room, leaving Jesse staring in shock.
Butler drove his Aston Martin like a madman. He swerved through the Manhattan traffic, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He slammed on the brakes outside the private hospital. Fire trucks surrounded the building. Yellow caution tape blocked the entrance. The smell of burnt plastic and ash hung heavy in the air.
Butler ducked under the tape. He shoved past a firefighter and ran into the flooded lobby.
A police officer stopped him near the basement stairs.
"Mr. Holloway," the officer said, his voice grim. "The fire in the VIP wing was too intense. The victim was burned beyond recognition. They just brought the remains down."
Butler pushed the cop aside. He kicked open the doors to the morgue.
The room was freezing. In the center of the room sat a metal table. On it was a body bag, unzipped halfway.
Butler's legs felt like lead. He walked toward the table.
He looked down.
The body was a charred, blackened mass of flesh and bone. The smell of roasted meat made his stomach heave.
His brain stopped working. The visual input was too horrific to process.
A trembling doctor stepped forward. He held out a clear plastic evidence bag.
"We found this near the door, sir. It survived the flames."
Butler looked at the bag. Inside was the divorce agreement. It was covered in dark, dried blood. Her blood.
He stared at her signature.
A physical pain exploded in his chest. It was so sharp, so violent, he thought his heart had actually ruptured.
Then, everything stopped.
The pain vanished. The smell of the smoke vanished. The cold air vanished. His sensory nerves simply shut down, overloaded by the trauma.
Butler's eyes rolled back. His massive body swayed, and he collapsed backward, his head hitting the cold tile floor with a sickening crack.
