The sound of metal scraping against metal.

Erica bit down on the leather strap they had given her. A scream trapped in her throat turned into a low, animalistic moan. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering it to her skull.

The pain was blinding. It was a physical violation, a scraping away of hope.

"Breathe, Erica. Breathe," the nurse whispered, holding her hand. Erica squeezed until she thought she might break the woman's fingers.

It ended. Finally, it ended.

Erica lay limp on the gurney, shivering uncontrollably. They moved her to a recovery room. It was small, shared with another patient behind a curtain. No VIP suite for the unloved wife.

The door flew open. Gisselle Dixon rushed in. She was a whirlwind of fury and Chanel No. 5.

"Oh my god, Erica."

Gisselle saw the bloodless face, the hollow eyes. She burst into tears.

"Who did this? Who?"

Erica lifted a hand. It was heavy. "Don't cry, G."

The doctor stepped in. He pulled Gisselle into the hallway. Erica could hear the murmur of voices, then Gisselle's sharp intake of breath. Then a shout.

"Toxins? You mean poison? That family poisoned her?"

"Shh, Miss Dixon, please. We are still analyzing the compounds."

Gisselle stormed back in. She grabbed Erica's phone from the bedside table. "I'm calling him. I'm calling the police. I'm calling everyone."

She dialed Dillard.

"Speaker," Erica whispered.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

"Yeah?" Dillard's voice. In the background, jazz music played. Glasses clinked. Laughter. A woman's laughter.

"You son of a bitch," Gisselle screamed. "Erica is in the hospital. She lost the baby. She just had surgery without anesthesia because your mother drugged her!"

There was a pause on the line. Then Dillard's voice, cold and dismissive. "Gisselle? Stop the drama. Erica put you up to this? Tell her the divorce terms are non-negotiable. I'm busy."

Click.

He hung up.

Gisselle stared at the phone, her mouth open. "He... he hung up."

Erica closed her eyes. A tear leaked out, hot and solitary. "Good."

"Good?" Gisselle yelled. "He's a monster!"

"It's good," Erica said, opening her eyes. The sadness was gone. In its place was something cold and hard, like a diamond. "Because now I don't have to feel guilty about what I'm going to do."

She sat up. The room spun.

"Help me up, G."

"You can't leave."

"I'm not staying in a Bentley-funded hospital. Did you get the bag?"

"Yes," Gisselle sniffled, wiping her eyes. "I stopped by the penthouse on my way here like you asked. I packed your essentials. And... I saw the papers on the nightstand. I took them, Erica. I wasn't going to let you leave them behind for him to ignore."

"Good. Take me to Brooklyn. To the loft."

The secret loft. Gisselle knew it. The place where Dr. N lived.

Erica slid her legs off the bed. Fresh blood spotted the gown. She didn't care.

"Let's go," she said. "Erica Duffy died on that table."

The Velvet Lounge was dim, smelling of expensive cigars and old leather.

Dillard sat in a plush booth, staring at his phone. The screen was dark. Gisselle's screaming voice echoed in his head. Lost the baby. Drugged.

It was ridiculous. A fabrication. Erica was healthy. She was just desperate.

Galen Sterling, Gisselle's fiancé and Dillard's friend, sat opposite him. He looked uncomfortable. He checked his own phone.

"Everything okay?" Galen asked.

"Fine," Dillard snapped. "Just Erica making a scene. She sent Gisselle to yell at me."

Galen grimaced. "Gisselle can be... intense. She called me too. Said something about a miscarriage."

Dillard swirled his scotch. "She's lying. She's trying to guilt me into staying."

Harrison Vance leaned in. "Ignore it, Dillard. Focus on the deal. If we don't get Avis Tech on board, the stock takes a hit next quarter."

Right. Avis Tech. And the mysterious Dr. N.

Dillard straightened his tie. "I need that meeting. Dr. N is the key to the new medical division."

The door to the private room opened. Brisa glided in. She wore a silver dress that shimmered like fish scales.

"Dillard," she cooed, sliding next to him. "I feel so much safer now that you're here."

She rested her head on his shoulder. Dillard stiffened. Usually, he welcomed her touch. Tonight, it felt cloying. He kept thinking about the silence in the penthouse. And the scent... Lily of the Valley. It used to remind him of innocence. Now, mixed with the stale cigar smoke, it just smelled artificial.

"Did you catch the stalker?" Brisa asked, running a finger down his arm.

"Security is handling it," Dillard muttered.

Brisa reached for his glass. "Let me have a sip."

Dillard pulled it away. "No. Get your own."

Brisa blinked, hurt flashing in her eyes. She recovered quickly. "You're stressed. Is it about Dr. N? I heard he's coming to the summit. Maybe I can charm him for you?"

Dillard looked at her. "You? Charm a recluse scientist?"

"Why not? Men love me."

Dillard felt a flash of annoyance. "Not everyone is me, Brisa."

He didn't know why he said it. He didn't know why the image of Erica's pale face at lunch was haunting him. He needed to prove she was lying. He needed to prove he wasn't the villain Gisselle said he was.

The waiter approached with a tower of champagne glasses on a silver tray.

Brisa, sensing Dillard's distraction, decided she needed a moment. A crisis to center his world back on her.

As the waiter passed, she extended her leg. A subtle, calculated movement. Her heel hooked the waiter's ankle.

The waiter stumbled. The tray tipped.

"Look out!" Harrison shouted.

Gravity took over. The pyramid of crystal collapsed. Shards of glass exploded outward like shrapnel.

"Ah!" Brisa shrieked, throwing her hands up.

Dillard moved on instinct. He lunged, shielding Brisa with his body. He felt a sharp sting on the back of his hand.

The crash subsided. Silence filled the room.

Dillard pulled back. His hand was dripping blood. A shard of glass was embedded in the skin.

"Oh my god, Dillard! You're bleeding!" Brisa grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with performative terror. "You saved me!"

"It's a scratch," Dillard said, looking at the wound. It was deep, but not life-threatening.

"We have to go to the hospital," Brisa insisted. "You need stitches."

Dillard sighed. "Fine."

They piled into the cars. The driver headed for Mount Sinai.

As the city lights blurred past, Dillard touched the bandage Brisa had makeshift wrapped around his hand. Mount Sinai. That's where Lloyd said Erica was.

"I'm going to check on her," Dillard said suddenly.

Brisa stiffened. "Why? You said she was lying."

"I want to see her face when I walk in. I want to see the lie crumble."

He convinced himself that was the reason. He didn't want to admit that a knot of worry was tightening in his chest.

They arrived at the ER. The staff fawned over Dillard. While a doctor stitched his hand, Brisa hovered, taking a selfie with his injured hand for her Instagram story. MyHero.

Dillard pulled his hand away. "Stop it."

He stood up. "Lloyd. What room?"

"Room 302, sir. Obstetrics ward."

Dillard walked out. Brisa scrambled to follow, her heels clicking aggressively on the linoleum.

The elevator ride was silent. The doors opened on the third floor. It was quiet here. The air smelled of antiseptic and sadness.

Room 302.

Dillard stopped at the door. He hesitated. What if she was really sick?

No. Impossible.

He pushed the door open.