Amy stormed down the grand, sweeping marble staircase, her blood boiling, her heart hammering against her ribs. She just wanted to get out of this suffocating house.

She reached the massive foyer. The high-tech security lock on the front door suddenly beeped.

The heavy brass door swung open. A blast of freezing New York night air swept into the warm lobby.

Amira walked in. She was flanked by two private nurses, wearing a custom silk hospital gown under a thick cashmere coat.

They met dead center in the foyer, directly beneath the massive crystal chandelier.

Amira stopped. Her eyes immediately darted to Amy's rumpled collar, her flushed cheeks, and her swollen lower lip. A flash of ugly, venomous jealousy twisted Amira's features.

But it was gone in a second. Amira smoothed her face into a sickeningly sweet, condescending smile.

"Oh, Amy," Amira cooed, her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. "Did Beckham call you here to check on my son?"

Amy's face turned to stone. She felt a wave of absolute disgust. She stepped to the side, trying to walk past the woman.

Amira flicked her eyes to the nurses. One of them immediately stepped sideways, blocking Amy's path to the door.

Amira shook off the nurses' hands and took a step closer to Amy. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial, mocking whisper.

"Are you jealous seeing Kevin?" Amira smiled, her eyes glinting with venomous triumph. "After all, not every woman is capable of bearing an heir for the Graham family. Beckham and I put so much 'effort' into having him... those days were truly sweet."

Amy's feet rooted to the marble floor. The words hit her brain like a physical club. A loud, high-pitched ringing started in her ears.

Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. Her perfectly manicured nails dug so hard into her palms that the skin broke.

She fought down the violent wave of PTSD-induced nausea rising in her stomach. She stared at Amira's moving mouth, feeling completely detached from reality.

Amira saw Amy's silence and mistook it for defeat. Her smile widened into a cruel sneer. "It must be hard for you. Knowing you're just a barren, lower-class piece of trash who couldn't even give him a child."

Amy's head snapped up. The dead, numb look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, terrifying glint of pure violence.

Without a single warning, Amy raised her right arm.

Amy's patience reached its absolute limit. She raised her hand and delivered a crisp, resounding slap across Amira's cheek. It wasn't a heavy blow, mindful of the woman's fragile heart, but it was profoundly humiliating. SMACK.

The sound was like a gunshot in the cavernous lobby. Amira's head snapped violently to the side.

Amira let out a high-pitched scream. She stumbled backward, clutching her rapidly swelling cheek, her eyes wide with absolute shock.

The two nurses gasped and lunged forward to grab Amy.

"Touch me and I'll break your arms," Amy snarled, her voice radiating such dark, commanding authority that the nurses froze in their tracks.

Amy stepped forward. She grabbed the lapels of Amira's expensive silk coat and yanked the woman forward.

A cold, demonic smile stretched across Amy's face.

"You know what? I changed my mind," Amy whispered, each word dripping with venom. "I'm not signing those divorce papers. I am going to sit on the title of Mrs. Graham for the rest of my life, just to watch you rot."

She leaned in closer, until her lips were inches from Amira's ear.

"And remember this," Amy hissed. "When they cut your chest open... I am the one holding the scalpel over your beating heart."

Amira's face drained of all color. Pure, unadulterated terror filled her eyes. She began to shake uncontrollably, trying to pull away.

Amy released her grip, shoving Amira backward with a look of utter disgust, like she was throwing away garbage. Amira collapsed onto the marble floor.

Amy reached into her bag, pulled out an antibacterial wipe, and slowly cleaned her hands. She dropped the used wipe right at Amira's feet.

She pushed past the frozen nurses, pulled open the heavy brass door, and walked out into the freezing New York night without looking back.

The next morning, the fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor buzzed quietly above Amy's head. She was holding a tablet, scrolling through patient charts outside the Intensive Care Unit.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall dinged open.

A team of NYPD officers, wearing heavy tactical vests, marched out. They moved with terrifying purpose, heading straight for her.

The lead detective stopped inches from Amy. He flipped open a leather wallet, flashing a gold badge.

"Amy Leach," he said, his voice hard and loud enough for the entire floor to hear. "You are under arrest for attempted murder in the first degree."

Amy's head snapped up. The tablet nearly slipped from her fingers. "What? Are you out of your mind?"

The detective reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held up a formal arrest warrant, signed by a state judge.

Nurses, doctors, and patients' families stopped in their tracks. A crowd began to form, whispers spreading like wildfire.

Two uniformed officers stepped behind Amy. They grabbed her arms, twisting them roughly behind her back.

The cold, heavy steel of the handcuffs snapped around her wrists. The sharp click echoed in her ears.

The physical sensation of the cold metal biting into her skin shocked her system. She stopped struggling. She locked her jaw and kept her head held high, refusing to give the onlookers the satisfaction of seeing her break.

They marched her through the main lobby of the hospital. She could see the flashes of cell phone cameras going off. Her professional reputation was bleeding out on the floor.

They shoved her into the back of an NYPD cruiser. The hard plastic seat dug into her back. The red and blue lights flashed against the buildings as the siren wailed, tearing through the congested Manhattan traffic.

At the 19th Precinct, they stripped her of her belt and shoelaces. They marched her into a windowless, concrete interrogation room.

A heavy metal switch was thrown. A blinding, high-intensity spotlight slammed into her face.

The detective threw a stack of glossy photographs onto the scratched metal table. They showed an IV bag and a severed plastic tube.

"Lab reports confirm a lethal dose of potassium was injected into Amira Hughes' IV line," the detective barked. He pulled out a tablet and hit play. "And security footage shows you entering her room at 6:00 AM this morning."

Amy squinted against the harsh light. Her chest felt tight, but her mind was razor-sharp. "I was doing my standard morning rounds. Check the camera angles. There is a blind spot behind the curtain. And anyone with basic medical knowledge knows potassium burns the veins-she would have screamed before it reached her heart."

The detective slammed his hands on the table, leaning in to break her.

Before he could speak, the heavy iron door of the interrogation room screeched open.

A man in a thousand-dollar suit walked in, holding a special DA permit. He was Amira's senior defense attorney. He was pushing Amira, who was sitting in a wheelchair, an oxygen mask strapped to her face.

The detective frowned, looking at the permit in the lawyer's hand.

"Officer," Amira rasped, pulling her oxygen mask down slightly, "I have some words I'd like to say to her in front of my lawyer, to help 'clear up' this misunderstanding. Could you give us a moment under supervision?"

The detective hesitated, then stepped back to the door, keeping a watchful eye but giving them a semblance of privacy.

The lawyer opened his leather briefcase. He pulled out a familiar document-the divorce agreement. At the bottom, Beckham's bold signature was already inked.

The lawyer tossed the document onto the metal table. He slid it across the scratched surface until it hit Amy's handcuffed wrists.

"Sign the papers, waive all alimony, and voluntarily surrender your medical license," Amira rasped, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Do that, and I will tell the police I made a mistake. I'll drop the charges."

Amy looked down at the papers. A low, dark chuckle rumbled in her chest.

She leaned forward against the metal table, her eyes locking onto Amira's.

"I would rather rot in a concrete cell for the rest of my life than bow down to a piece of trash like you," Amy said, her voice ringing with absolute, unbreakable resolve.

She raised her handcuffed hands and forcefully pushed the document. It slid off the edge of the table and fluttered to the dirty floor.

Amira's face twisted in rage. She slapped the oxygen mask back over her mouth and frantically waved at her lawyer to get her out of the room.