The double doors of the main entrance burst open. The heavy oak had been forced from its hinges, not by a vehicle, but by the sheer weight of a crowd pushing against it. One of Delisa's PR assistants must have "accidentally" left it unlocked.
A swarm of people poured into the foyer. Cameras. Flashbulbs. Microphones. It was a chaotic wave of noise and blinding light. The paparazzi.
"Delisa! Delisa! Is it true you're pregnant?"
"Who is the father?"
"Look this way, Delisa!"
Delisa screamed, a high-pitched, theatrical sound. She shrank back into the sofa, covering her face, though Amira noticed she angled her body perfectly to show off her profile.
Ethan sprang into action. "Get out! This is private property!"
He jumped in front of Delisa, shielding her with his body, playing the role of the protective hero to perfection.
The mob pushed forward. They didn't care about Ethan's shouting. They wanted the shot.
Amira was standing near the doorway, frozen. The crowd surged. A heavy telephoto lens swung through the air as a photographer jostled for position.
The metal casing of the lens slammed into Amira's temple.
The pain was immediate and blinding. Amira cried out, stumbling back. She lost her footing and was shoved hard against the sharp edge of the doorframe. Her head cracked against the wood.
She slid to the floor, dazed. The world tilted. She brought her hand to her head and pulled it away. It was wet. Red.
Blood trickled down her forehead, stinging her eye, blurring her vision.
From her vantage point on the floor, she saw Ethan. He was cradling Delisa, kissing her forehead, whispering into her hair. He was looking right at the camera, his face a mask of righteous fury and devotion.
Then, his eyes flickered. He looked down. He saw Amira on the floor, blood dripping onto her white coat.
For a second, their eyes met. Amira waited for him to move. To help.
Ethan looked away. He turned his back to her, spreading his arms wide to block the cameras from Delisa, leaving Amira exposed to the trampling feet of the mob.
A photographer stepped on Amira's hand. She yanked it back, stifling a sob, curling into a ball to protect herself.
"Security!" Ethan bellowed.
Finally, the estate security team arrived, pushing the photographers back, wrestling cameras away. The room slowly cleared, leaving behind the silence of the aftermath.
Ethan helped Delisa stand. He checked her arms, her face. "Are you okay, baby? Did they hurt you?"
"I'm so scared, Ethan," Delisa sobbed, clinging to him.
Amira struggled to her feet. She was dizzy. The blood was dripping onto the floor now.
Ethan turned. He saw the blood on the antique Persian rug.
"You're bleeding on the carpet," he said. His voice was cold, annoyed. "That's silk."
Amira froze. The pain in her head was nothing compared to the hollow chasm opening in her chest. That was his concern. The rug.
She didn't say a word. She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and pressed it to her temple. She picked up her medical bag with her uninjured hand.
She walked to the broken front door. She was limping.
Ethan didn't call her back.
She got into her car. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely put the key in the ignition. She looked in the rearview mirror. Her face was pale, streaked with blood. Her eyes were dead.
The love she had held onto for eight years didn't just die. It was murdered.
She started the car and drove away.
