Sharon stared at the bloody phone on the floor.

She knelt down and picked it up. The screen was still unlocked, displaying the call log. Dozens of red missed calls to 'Cristofer' filled the screen. Sharon looked at the closed doors of the OR. She thought about the pale, bleeding woman who had to fight for her own right to surgery because her billionaire husband wouldn't pick up the phone. A tight knot of anger formed in Sharon's chest.

She wiped the blood off the screen with her thumb. She swiped out of the call log and opened the text messages. She tapped on the first name pinned at the top of Corrine's emergency contact list: Eleanor. Sharon rapidly typed out a message with shaking fingers, detailing the absolute nightmare unfolding in the surgical wing, and pressed send.

Ten miles away, on the Upper East Side, the bass from the nightclub speakers vibrated through the leather VIP booths.

Eleanor Fletcher sat back against the cushions. She swirled the martini in her glass, completely bored.

Suddenly, the phone inside her limited-edition Birkin bag started vibrating frantically against the leather.

She groaned in annoyance. She set the glass down on the glass coffee table and pulled out her phone.

The moment her eyes focused on the screen, the breath left her lungs.

Hospital... bleeding... save her babies.

The broken words stabbed into Eleanor's eyes. The blood drained from her face. Her skin turned ice cold.

She shot up from the sofa. Her knee slammed into the edge of the glass table. A tower of champagne flutes tipped over. Glass shattered everywhere. Champagne soaked into the expensive rug.

A Wall Street trust-fund kid sitting next to her reached out to grab her arm. "Whoa, babe, what's the rush-"

"Get the fuck off me!" Eleanor roared.

The guy flinched, pulling his hand back as if he'd been burned.

Eleanor didn't look back. She sprinted out of the club in her five-inch Louboutin heels. She shoved past the bouncers and burst into the freezing rain.

She unlocked her phone and dialed Cristofer's number while running toward her Aston Martin.

The mechanical Verizon voice answered. The subscriber you have dialed is not available.

"You piece of shit," Eleanor hissed. She threw her phone onto the passenger seat.

She ripped the car door open, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed her foot on the brake. She twisted the key. The V12 engine roared like a wild animal. The sports car shot out into the wet Manhattan streets.

At a red light on Fifth Avenue, Eleanor's hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles ached.

She glanced at the digital dashboard screen. A Twitter notification popped up. It was the top trending topic. A bright red siren emoji sat next to the hashtag: CristoferClarke & ArielleOrozco Late Night Pool Party.

Eleanor's heart stopped. She leaned forward and tapped the screen.

A set of high-definition paparazzi photos from TMZ loaded instantly.

There was Cristofer. His dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Hollywood's top actress, Arielle Orozco, had her arms wrapped intimately around his bicep. They were standing by a glowing blue pool at a private villa in the Hamptons.

She swiped to the next image. It was a GIF. Arielle laughed, tilting her head back to rest on Cristofer's shoulder. They walked together into the dark house.

Eleanor's entire body started to shake. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug so deep into the steering wheel they left permanent scratches in the leather.

"Corrine is bleeding out," Eleanor screamed at the empty car, her throat burning. "And you are fucking that manipulative bitch!"

The light turned green. Eleanor slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

The Aston Martin ignored the speed limit, tearing through the rain. She put in her Bluetooth earpiece. She dialed the head of PR for the Clarke family.

A man answered on the second ring.

"Put Cristofer on the phone right now," Eleanor demanded.

"Ms. Fletcher," the PR director said, his tone dripping with corporate arrogance. "Mr. Clarke is currently handling private matters. I have no information for you."

The cold, calculated old-money response made Eleanor's blood boil.

"Listen to me, you corporate lapdog," Eleanor spat. "If you don't patch me through-"

He hung up.

Eleanor let out a scream of pure rage. She swerved into the next lane, the tires hydroplaning on the wet asphalt. She barely missed the back of a FedEx truck. She jerked the wheel hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She couldn't crash. She was the only person Corrine had right now.

The glowing red cross of the private hospital appeared through the rain. Eleanor slammed on the brakes. The sports car fishtailed and skidded to a halt directly in the emergency ambulance bay.

She didn't even shut the door. She grabbed her bag and ran inside. Her heels clicked sharply against the tiles.

A security guard stepped in front of her. "Ma'am, you can't park there-"

Eleanor shoved him hard in the chest. "Where is Corrine Ratcliff?!"

Nurse Sharon heard the yelling. She rushed out from behind the desk. She instantly recognized the socialite who frequently graced the pages of Vogue.

Sharon grabbed Eleanor's arm and pulled her into a quiet corner of the waiting area.

"Are you Eleanor?" Sharon asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Yes. Where is she?"

"She's in surgery," Sharon said, her eyes filled with pity. "It's bad. She had a massive hemorrhage. They might have to remove her uterus to stop the bleeding."

The words hit Eleanor like a physical punch to the gut. Her knees buckled. She grabbed the collar of Sharon's scrubs to keep herself standing.

Her eyes filled with hot tears.

"Bring me the paperwork," Eleanor growled, her voice trembling with absolute fury. "Bring me every liability waiver you have. I will sign them all."

Eleanor snatched the thick stack of papers from Sharon's hands.

She didn't read a single line of the medical jargon. She flipped straight to the back pages and aggressively scribbled her signature on every single proxy line.

She slammed the clipboard down on the reception desk.

"Listen to me," Eleanor pointed a shaking finger at the hospital administrator standing behind the counter. "If Corrine Ratcliff dies in that room, the Fletcher family lawyers will bankrupt this hospital by morning. Do your jobs."

Two agonizing hours passed.

Eleanor paced the hallway. Finally, the red light above the operating room doors clicked off.

The automatic doors slid open. Dr. Finch walked out. His blue scrubs were covered in massive, dark red bloodstains. He pulled his surgical cap off, looking exhausted.

Eleanor sprang from the plastic waiting chair. She ran over and grabbed his forearm.

"Is she alive?" Eleanor demanded.

Dr. Finch let out a heavy breath. "She delivered twins. A boy and a girl. The boy's weight is barely acceptable, but he's stable."

Eleanor's shoulders dropped. A small, relieved smile touched her lips.

But Dr. Finch's expression didn't change. His jaw tightened.

"The girl suffered severe hypoxia in the womb," he said, his voice grim. "Her lungs are severely underdeveloped. She's in critical condition. We are moving her to the NICU immediately."

Before Eleanor could process the words, the OR doors opened again. Two nurses ran out, pushing a clear plastic incubator.

Eleanor rushed to the glass. Inside the box lay a baby girl. She was the size of Eleanor's hand. Her skin was a terrifying shade of purple. A thick tube was shoved down her tiny throat. Her chest barely moved.

Eleanor's chest seized. It felt like a giant hand was crushing her heart.

She watched through blurred, tear-filled eyes as the nurses pushed the incubator down the hall, rushing toward the intensive care wing.

Eleanor wiped her face and turned back to Dr. Finch. "And Corrine? Can I see her?"

Dr. Finch shook his head slowly. "Corrine suffered uterine atony after the delivery. She lost a catastrophic amount of blood."

Eleanor stopped breathing.

"We managed to save her uterus," Dr. Finch continued. "But the blood loss sent her into deep hemorrhagic shock. She is in the ICU. We are monitoring her for multiple organ failure. It's hour by hour right now."

Eleanor's legs gave out. She slid down the cold, tiled wall until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her hands. A violent sob tore through her chest.

Ding.

A sharp notification sound came from her pocket.

Eleanor pulled out her phone with trembling hands. It was an alert from her special Twitter follows. Cristofer's official PR team had just released a joint statement.

Eleanor stared at the screen. The text was perfectly polished.

Mr. Cristofer Clarke and Ms. Arielle Orozco are longtime friends. They were simply enjoying a beautiful weekend together at a private gathering. We ask the media to stop over-analyzing the situation.

Below the text was a high-quality photo of Cristofer and Arielle clinking champagne glasses in the sun. They were smiling.

Eleanor looked at the words enjoying a beautiful weekend. Then she looked down the hall at the flashing red lights of the ICU, where Corrine was bleeding to death.

A wave of pure, blinding rage shot straight to her brain.

Eleanor stood up. She gripped her phone tightly. She turned and hurled it as hard as she could at a massive, antique porcelain vase sitting in the corner of the lobby.

CRASH!

The vase exploded. Thousands of sharp ceramic shards flew across the floor.

The nurses jumped. The security guards reached for their radios.

Eleanor didn't care. She pointed at the broken pieces on the floor.

"Cristofer Clarke," she whispered to the empty air, her teeth grinding together. "I am going to make you pay for this."

She marched over to the nurses' station. She pulled a solid metal American Express Black Card from her wallet and slapped it on the counter.

"Move Corrine to the highest security VIP penthouse suite on the top floor. Now," Eleanor ordered.

The nurse blinked, intimidated. "Yes, ma'am."

"And tell your security chief," Eleanor leaned over the counter, her eyes completely dead, "if anyone with the last name Clarke steps foot on that floor, I will have them arrested for trespassing."

Once the transfer was initiated, Eleanor walked down to the NICU. She stood outside the large glass window, staring at the tiny, purple baby fighting for every breath.

She pulled a burner phone from her bag. She dialed the encrypted number of her family's private investigator.

He answered immediately.

"I need you to dig into that Hamptons villa," Eleanor said, her voice as sharp as a razor. "Find out exactly what happened last night. I want every piece of dirt you can find on Arielle Orozco."

She hung up the phone. The rain outside the hospital window began to slow, but Eleanor knew the real storm was just beginning.

The morning sun sliced through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hamptons villa. The bright light stabbed directly into Cristofer Clarke's eyelids.

He groaned. He rolled over on the massive leather bed. A vicious hangover pounded against the inside of his skull like a jackhammer.

He slowly opened his eyes. He reached his hand out across the mattress.

The silk sheets were cold. Empty.

He frowned. His memory of last night was completely fragmented. He remembered drinking heavily with some investors after the charity gala. Then Arielle had offered to drive him to the villa so he wouldn't have to face the paparazzi in the city.

He sat up quickly and threw off the duvet. He was still wearing his suit trousers. There were no signs of intimacy. He let out a slow breath, his chest relaxing slightly.

Cristofer reached blindly toward the marble nightstand. He wanted to check his phone. He needed to see if Corrine had texted him to check in.

His hand swiped across the cold marble. Nothing.

He frowned deeper. He lifted the pillows. He leaned over and checked the floor under the bed. The private phone-the one with the dedicated line for his wife-was gone.

A surge of irritation flared in his chest. He rubbed his temples, stood up, and walked out of the bedroom.

He walked down the spiral glass staircase toward the open-concept kitchen.

The smell of frying bacon filled the air. Arielle Orozco stood by the stove. She was wearing one of his oversized white dress shirts. Her bare legs shifted as she hummed a soft tune.

She heard his footsteps and turned around. A flawless, sweet smile spread across her face. She picked up a mug of black coffee and walked toward him.

"Morning, sleepyhead. I made this for your hangover," she said softly.

Cristofer didn't take the mug. His eyes swept over the shirt she was wearing, his expression turning cold.

"Where is my phone?" he demanded, his voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

A flash of panic crossed Arielle's eyes, but it vanished instantly. She replaced it with a look of pure, innocent guilt. She bit her lower lip.

"Last night, you were throwing up over the edge of the master balcony. I tried to pull you back, and your arm jerked. You accidentally knocked your phone over the railing. It fell three stories and smashed directly onto the stone patio below. The screen was completely shattered, and the internal battery casing split. It wouldn't even turn on."

Cristofer's jaw locked. His left hand instinctively reached for the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, twisting the dial.

That phone had highly classified financial documents on it. More importantly, it was the only way Corrine could reach him.

"I already took care of it," Arielle added quickly, stepping closer. "I had my assistant drive it straight to the Apple IT department in the city. They promised to recover the data. Nothing will leak."

Cristofer let go of his watch. He ran a hand through his messy hair. He didn't have the energy to argue.

He walked past her into the living room. He picked up the landline phone from the side table and dialed his Manhattan penthouse.

It rang six times before Patty Doyle, the senior nanny, picked up. She sounded out of breath.

"Put Corrine on the phone," Cristofer ordered.

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Sir," Patty stammered. "Mrs. Ratcliff... she left the apartment late last night. She hasn't come back."

Cristofer's stomach dropped. His heart skipped a beat. But the brief moment of panic was quickly swallowed by a rising tide of anger.

"She is nine months pregnant," Cristofer yelled into the receiver. "Where the hell did she go in the middle of the night?"

"I don't know!" Patty cried, her voice trembling. "She's been acting so strange lately. She doesn't tell me anything. Maybe she went to a friend's house?"

Cristofer slammed the phone down onto the receiver.

He paced across the living room. He knew exactly what this was. Corrine must have seen some garbage gossip blog online. She was throwing a tantrum. She was using this childish "running away" tactic to force him to come crawling back and explain himself.

It was pathetic.

He pulled his secondary work phone from his suit jacket pocket. He dialed his chief of staff, Cole Bishop.

"Cole," Cristofer barked the moment the line connected. "Pull the credit card records for Corrine. All of them. And check the garage security footage at the penthouse."

"Right away, sir," Cole said.

"Send a security detail to those little art galleries and coffee shops she likes," Cristofer continued, his tone turning ruthless. "When you find her, put her in a car and take her straight back to the apartment."

He hung up the phone. He walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the mug of black coffee from the counter. He drank it in one gulp. His eyes were hard, filled with the absolute arrogance of a man who controlled everything.

Arielle stood behind the kitchen island. She watched him issue the orders. When he turned his back to put the mug in the sink, the sweet smile melted off her face.

The corners of her mouth curled up into a wicked, victorious smirk.