The phone slipped from Johana's hand. It bounced on the rug, the screen glowing.

"Sibley Memorial," she said, her voice hollow. "Chloe, we have to go. Now."

Chloe was already on her feet, the last traces of vodka gone from her eyes. "I'll get a car. Get your coat."

They scrambled. Johana's hands were shaking so badly she couldn't grip the zipper of her jacket. She yanked it hard, the metal teeth scraping her chin, not caring about the sting.

Chloe was on her phone, swearing. "Surge pricing is insane. Two hundred bucks just to get across town."

"Just pay it!" Johana yelled.

They ran down the stairs, bursting out of the dorm into the freezing night. The snow had stopped, but the streets were slick and empty. The wait for the car was three minutes. It felt like three hours.

Johana stood on the curb, her breath coming out in white puffs. She pulled up Hazelle's contact and hit call. It rang. And rang. Voicemail.

"Hazelle, please," she whispered into the phone. "Please be okay."

The car pulled up. They dove into the back seat.

"Sibley Memorial," Chloe told the driver. "Fast. Please."

The driver looked in the mirror, saw their faces, and hit the gas. The city blurred past the windows. The streetlights smeared into streaks of yellow and white through the tears Johana was trying to blink back.

She remembered yesterday morning. Hazelle at the mirror, putting on lipstick, a smile on her face that Johana had never seen before.

"I'm going to meet someone," Hazelle had said. "Someone who can change my life."

Johana had laughed. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

The memory was a knife in her chest. She should have stopped her. She should have asked more questions.

"She probably just drank too much," Chloe said, gripping Johana's hand. "You know how she gets. She's not used to the hard stuff."

"It wasn't just drinking," Johana said, staring at the seat in front of her. "That man on the phone... he was too calm. It was wrong."

The drive stretched on—through snarled traffic on the bridge, past a fender-bender that had two lanes blocked, the minutes bleeding into each other. By the time the hospital came into view, nearly an hour had passed since Kamren's call. More than enough time for a helicopter to cross the hundred miles from the Hamptons.

Her phone rang. It was the same unknown number. She snatched it up.

"Hello?"

"Miss Neal," Kamren Hubbard's voice was still maddeningly level. "Just to let you know, we've arrived. We're in the emergency room waiting for you."

"Who are you?" Johana demanded. "Why are you the one calling me?"

"I am handling the situation," Kamren said smoothly. "Just focus on getting here safely. We will talk when you arrive."

The line went dead.

Johana stared at the screen. "Kamren Hubbard," she said slowly. "Do you know that name?"

Chloe frowned, thinking. Her face went pale. "Hubbard? Like... the Hubbard family? The hedge fund?"

The car screeched to a halt in front of the Sibley Memorial emergency room. The lights were blindingly bright, a harsh contrast to the dark street.

Johana threw open the door before the car fully stopped. She ran across the sidewalk, her boots slipping on the ice, and shoved through the double doors of the ER.

The waiting room was bright and cold, smelling of disinfectant and anxiety. And sitting in the plastic chairs, looking completely out of place, was a group of men in expensive coats.

One of them was Kamren Hubbard, his dark hair perfectly styled, his face calm.

And sitting next to him, his long legs stretched out, his pale blue eyes lifting to meet hers, was Dalton Black.

The smell of rubbing alcohol hit her like a slap. They had driven through the night—four hours from D.C. to the South Fork, Chloe gripping the wheel while Johana stared at her phone, willing it to ring. By the time they pulled into the Southampton Hospital parking lot, the first gray light of dawn was bleeding into the sky. Johana stopped dead in the doorway of the ER, her chest heaving.

Dalton's eyes locked onto hers. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in them-surprise, maybe. But it was gone instantly, replaced by that same cold, hard mask he wore in the driveway.

Kamren Hubbard stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. He walked toward her, his hand extended. "Miss Neal. I'm Kamren. We spoke on the phone."

Johana ignored his hand. She looked past him, at the other men in the room. One of them was pacing, his phone pressed to his ear. He was tall, with slicked-back hair and an open collar. Zane Croft.

"...I don't care about the optics," Zane was hissing into the phone, his back half-turned. "Just handle it. I want a full-spectrum sweep. No digital ghosts, you understand?"

Johana's blood ran cold. She stepped around Kamren and confronted Zane. "What did you do to her?"

Zane glanced at her, annoyed. "Who the hell are you?"

"Where is Hazelle?" Johana demanded, her voice rising. "What did you do?"

Kamren stepped in, his hand lightly touching her elbow. "Miss Neal, please. Lower your voice. The doctors are working."

"Don't touch me!" Johana yanked her arm away. She pointed at Zane. "I heard him. He's talking about a digital sweep. You're covering something up."

The waiting room went quiet. A nurse at the station looked up, frowning.

Dalton stood up. He moved slowly, his presence commanding the space. He walked over until he was standing right in front of Johana, looking down at her.

"This is a hospital," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Not a courtroom. Making a scene won't help your friend."

"Help her?" Johana's voice cracked. "You people did this to her. You're destroying evidence."

"We are ensuring her privacy," Dalton said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Unlike you, we are trying to keep this out of the news."

Before Johana could scream at him, the ER door swung open. A young man in a rumpled suit hurried in, followed by a woman carrying a briefcase.

The man in the suit walked straight to Dalton. "Mr. Black. We've retained Dr. Feldman. He's the best trauma specialist on the East Coast. He's been consulted via teleconference and has already arranged for Miss Olson's immediate transfer to a private suite at a facility upstate,where he will personally oversee her case."

Dalton nodded once. "And the hospital?"

"Taken care of," the assistant said. "No records will leak. Mr. Croft's team is handling the digital footprint as we speak."

Johana listened in horror. It was all true. They were erasing the night. They were making Hazelle disappear.

"You're monsters," she whispered.

Zane Croft hung up his phone and sneered at her. "Listen, sweetheart, you don't know who you're dealing with. Back off."

Dalton's head snapped toward Zane. One look. Just one icy glare. Zane's jaw tightened. He shot a look back that was half defiance, half grudging respect, before turning away and muttering under his breath.

Dalton turned back to Johana. "We are providing your friend with the best medical care money can buy. If you care about her at all, you will let us do our jobs."

His words were logical. His tone was infuriating. He was treating her like a problem to be managed.

The door to the treatment rooms opened. A nurse stepped out, holding a clipboard. "Family of Hazelle Olson?"

"I'm here," Johana said, pushing past Dalton. "How is she?"

The nurse looked at her sympathetically. "She's been sedated. She was highly agitated. The doctor will come out to speak with you shortly."

Johana's knees buckled. The adrenaline was crashing. She reached out for the wall, missing, and started to fall.

A hand caught her arm. Firm, warm, steadying her. Dalton.

She looked up at his hand on her skin, then up at his face. The disgust in her eyes was absolute.

She ripped her arm out of his grip. "Don't touch me."

She steadied herself against the wall, breathing hard. "I don't want your money. I don't want your doctors. I want the truth. And I will find out what you did to her."

Dalton let his hand drop to his side. He stared at her, his expression unreadable. He didn't defend himself. He didn't argue. He just watched her, his blue eyes dark and intense.

"Okay," he said quietly.

Dr. Feldman walked down the corridor, his white coat flapping. He ignored Dalton and the lawyers, walking straight to Johana.

"Are you the roommate?" he asked gently.

"Yes," Johana said, her voice trembling.

"I'm Dr. Feldman. I've just examined Miss Olson." He glanced at the group of men hovering nearby. "Let's step into the family room. We can speak privately."

He guided Johana and Chloe into a small room with a couch and a box of tissues on the table. He closed the door, shutting out the suits.

"Sit down," he said.

Johana stayed standing. "Just tell me."

"Miss Olson has suffered a severe acute psychological trauma," Dr. Feldman said, his voice calm but serious. "She is exhibiting signs of severe stress and dissociation."

"What caused it?" Chloe asked, her hand over her mouth.

"Toxicology came back positive for a high level of alcohol, and a significant amount of a benzodiazepine. A party drug. It was likely slipped into her drink without her knowledge."

Johana felt the floor tilt. Hazelle didn't do drugs. She barely drank.

"Was she... did someone hurt her?" Johana forced the words out.

"There is no evidence of physical assault," Dr. Feldman said. "But her mental state is extremely fragile. She was repeating phrases. 'It's too late.' 'It's all my fault.' 'They won't let me go.'"

The words hit Johana like a physical blow. They won't let me go. She was trapped.

"She needs immediate, long-term inpatient care," the doctor continued. "A facility that specializes in trauma. I recommend Sheppard Pratt."

"Sheppard Pratt?" Chloe whispered. "That's thousands of dollars a day."

Johana's heart sank. She had no money. Hazelle's family had no money. It was impossible.

A soft knock interrupted them. The door opened, and Dalton's assistant, Taylor, stepped in. He looked perfectly composed, holding a tablet.

"Excuse me, Miss Neal," Taylor said. "I couldn't help but overhear. Mr. Black has authorized full payment for Miss Olson's care. She will be transferred to Sheppard Pratt immediately. A private ambulance is already en route."

Johana stared at him. The kindness of the gesture was completely swallowed by the coldness of the execution. It wasn't kindness. It was a transaction. It was hush money.

She pushed past him and walked out of the room. Dalton was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when she approached.

"So that's it?" she asked, her voice shaking with rage. "You just write a check and the problem goes away?"

Dalton straightened up, pocketing his phone. "It gets her the help she needs."

"Gets her the help she needs, or gets you off the hook?" Johana stepped closer, getting in his space. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, but she didn't back down. "I know what you're doing. I know why you're paying. You're buying her silence."

Dalton didn't flinch. "You're upset. You're not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking clearly enough to know that you're all guilty," Johana said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And I'm not going to let this go. I don't care how much money you have. I will find out what happened in that house."

Dalton looked down at her. His gaze was intense, searching. He didn't look angry. He looked... intrigued.

"Is that a promise?" he asked softly.

"It's a fact," Johana said.

They stared at each other, the air crackling between them. Kamren and Zane stood a few feet away, watching in stunned silence. No one talked to Dalton like that. No one challenged him.

Johana broke the stare first. She turned her back on him and walked toward the nurse's station to see Hazelle.

Dalton watched her go. He didn't move until she was out of sight.

"Taylor," he said, not turning around.

"Yes, sir?"

"Find out everything about Johana Neal. I want to know what she had for breakfast."