The next morning, Edlyn walked into Mount Sinai Hospital. She wasn't wearing a disguise this time. She wore a tailored black suit and heels. She looked like she belonged.

She carried a large bouquet of white lilies in a florist's vase. She approached the VIP entrance, timing her arrival to coincide with the morning shift change she had observed the day before. She held up her phone, displaying a QR code she had generated-not from the visitor's pass, but one linked to a temporary vendor credential for "Orchidaceae Deliveries," a file she'd found on Arno's cloud server.

The scanner beeped green.

Edlyn walked through.

The guard at Room 1208 was new. He checked the flowers, patted down the vase, and nodded.

Edlyn pushed the door open.

The room was silent except for the hum of the ventilator. Serena Vance lay in the bed. She was awake. She was pale, fragile, ethereal.

She turned her head. Her eyes widened when she saw Edlyn.

"You," Serena whispered. "You're... the wife."

Edlyn didn't answer. She walked to the bedside table and began arranging the flowers. Her movements were precise, calm.

Serena tried to sit up, wincing. "Arno told me about you. He said you were... quiet."

Edlyn turned. She looked directly at Serena. Her gaze was heavy, unblinking.

Serena shifted uncomfortably. "Why are you here? To mark your territory?"

Edlyn reached into her purse. She pulled out a small notepad and a pen. She wrote a single sentence. She tore the page out and held it up for Serena to read.

He watches your medical charts every night. He adjusted your potassium dosage from the closet.

Serena read the note. The color drained from her face, leaving her gray. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"You... you're sick," Serena stammered.

Edlyn smiled. It was a small, cold curving of her lips. She wrote again.

Does he touch you? Or does he just manage his investment?

She held it up.

Serena screamed. It was a weak, ragged sound. "Nurse! Get her out!"

Edlyn didn't move. She stood her ground, a silent statue of judgment.

The door burst open. A nurse and the guard rushed in.

"She's threatening me!" Serena sobbed, pointing a trembling finger.

The guard grabbed Edlyn's arm. His grip was bruising. He dragged her toward the door. Edlyn didn't fight. She let her body go limp, making it harder for him.

As they reached the hallway, the elevator doors opened. Arno sprinted out, followed by a trail of doctors.

He saw the guard manhandling Edlyn. He stopped, his chest heaving.

"Let her go," Arno barked.

The guard released her. Edlyn stumbled, rubbing her arm.

Arno stepped close to her. His face was a mask of fury. "You crossed a line."

From inside the room, Serena's sobs escalated into a coughing fit. The monitors began to alarm. High-pitched, rhythmic warnings.

Arno didn't look at Edlyn again. He shoved past her, running into the room.

"Serena!"

Edlyn stood in the hallway, alone. The door swung shut, but not before she saw Arno fall to his knees beside the bed, grasping Serena's hand as if it were the only anchor in the world.

The alarms were getting louder.

"Tachycardia!" a doctor shouted. "She's in distress!"

Edlyn stood at the threshold. She hadn't left. She couldn't. She needed to see the depth of his devotion.

Arno turned his head. He saw her standing there. His eyes were wild.

"Get out!" he roared.

Edlyn didn't move.

A crash team arrived with a cart. The hallway was chaos. Arno stood up and charged toward the door to close it.

Edlyn instinctively reached out. She put her hand on the doorframe, trying to keep the connection open, trying to force him to acknowledge her existence.

"Don't block the way!" Arno yelled.

He shoved her. It wasn't a gentle push. It was a violent, desperate shove.

Edlyn lost her balance. She stumbled backward. Her heels slipped on the polished floor.

She fell. Her right hand-her dominant hand, the hand that held the scalpel, the hand that restored history-flailed out to break her fall.

It smashed into the glass display case lining the corridor wall.

CRASH.

The sound was sickening. The glass shattered into jagged shards.

Edlyn felt a dull impact, then a sharp, searing heat. She pulled her hand back.

Blood. So much blood. It pulsed from her palm, dark and fast. A large shard of glass was embedded deep in the muscle of her thumb.

The sound of the breaking glass silenced the room for a heartbeat.

Arno looked at her. He looked at the blood dripping onto the white tiles. He looked at the glass in her hand.

Edlyn looked up at him. She waited. She waited for the regret. She waited for him to come to her.

"Arno..." Serena moaned from the bed.

Arno's eyes snapped back to the woman in the bed. He didn't hesitate. He didn't blink.

He turned his back on Edlyn.

He slammed the door.

The click of the latch was the loudest sound Edlyn had ever heard.

She sat on the floor, surrounded by broken glass. The pain in her hand was blinding, but the pain in her chest was absolute.

"Oh my god! Your hand!"

A nurse ran over, kneeling beside her. "We need to get you to the ER."

Edlyn looked at the closed door. He knew. He saw. And he chose.

She pushed the nurse away. She struggled to her feet, clutching her bleeding wrist with her left hand. Blood soaked her sleeve. It dripped onto her shoes.

She shook her head at the nurse.

She turned and walked toward the elevators. She left a trail of red drops on the pristine floor.

The restorer was gone. Something else was taking her place.

Edlyn locked the door of the public restroom on the first floor. It smelled of bleach and stale water. She went to the sink and turned on the cold tap.

She thrust her hand under the water. The shock made her knees buckle. The water turned pink, swirling down the drain.

She looked at the wound. The shard was still there. If she went to the ER, they would ask questions. They would call Arno. Genevra would find out. They would say she was unstable. Self-harm.

She couldn't give them that ammunition.

She opened her purse. She always carried her field kit. Tweezers. A small bottle of solvent. And a tube of medical-grade cyanoacrylate-skin adhesive-she kept for closing minor cuts from scalpels.

She took out the tweezers. She held them over the flame of her lighter until the metal blackened.

She bit down on her scarf to stifle the scream building in her throat.

She looked in the mirror. Her face was gray, sweat beading on her forehead.

Do it.

She gripped the shard with the tweezers. She pulled.

The pain was a white-hot lightning bolt. It tore through her arm, into her shoulder, into her brain.

She pulled harder. The glass slid out with a wet, sucking sound.

Edlyn gagged. She dropped the shard into the sink. Blood welled up, faster now.

She grabbed the adhesive. It was for skin, but not for a wound this deep. It would burn. It would scar. But it would hold.

She squeezed the clear liquid into the open wound.

The scream that escaped her was muffled by the wool scarf, a guttural, animal sound. She pressed the edges of the skin together, holding them tight while the world spun around her.

One minute. Two minutes. The glue set. The bleeding slowed.

She wrapped her hand in gauze from her kit.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were hard. The fear was gone, burned away by the pain.

She took a piece of paper from her notebook. It was stained with her blood.

With her left hand, she wrote in jagged, shaky letters:

Her or The Contract.

She walked out of the restroom. She went back to the VIP waiting area.

Arno was coming out of the room. He looked exhausted. His shirt was rumpled. There was a small stain on his cuff. Vomit?

He saw her. He saw the bandage.

"Where did you go?" he snapped. "Stop making a scene."

Edlyn walked up to him. She slapped the bloody note onto his chest.

Arno grabbed it. He read it. He laughed. A short, disbelief-filled bark.

"You think you have leverage?"

He stepped closer, invading her space. He smelled of sweat and fear.

"Your father's ventilator costs four thousand dollars a day. Do you want to pull the plug? Because I can make that call."

Edlyn stared at him. He was using her father's life.

"And as for your hand..." He glanced at the bandage with distain. "You can't fix those old paintings with a crippled hand anyway. You might as well stay home where you belong."

The words hit her like physical blows. He didn't care about her pain. He cared that she was broken equipment.

Edlyn stepped back. She looked at him as if he were a monster she had never seen before.

Arno straightened his jacket. "Go home. Don't make me say it a third time."

He crumpled the note and tossed it into a trash can.

Edlyn watched the paper fall.

The contract was void. He had broken it. Now, she would burn it.