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.

The room was empty.

A nurse was in the process of stripping the bed. She was shoving heavy, crimson-soaked sheets into a yellow biohazard bag. The mattress protector underneath was still visible, bearing a dark, jagged map of violence that hadn't yet been scrubbed away.

Dillard stopped. His breath caught in his throat. The sheer volume of blood was undeniable. It wasn't a prop. It wasn't a trick.

"Where is she?" he demanded. His voice was too loud in the quiet room.

Brisa peeked around him. "See? She's gone. Probably went shopping."

The nurse looked up, startled. She dropped the biohazard bag, sealing the evidence of Erica's pain. "Mr. Bentley? We didn't expect you."

"Where is my wife?" Dillard pointed at the bed.

"Mrs. Bentley discharged herself against medical advice," the nurse said, clutching a clipboard. "About forty minutes ago."

"Discharged? So she's fine?" Brisa said triumphantly.

The nurse looked at Brisa with open hostility. "Fine? She just underwent a D&C for an incomplete miscarriage. Without anesthesia. She lost a significant amount of blood. She is not 'fine'."

The world tilted on its axis.

Dillard grabbed the doorframe. "Miscarriage? Without... without anesthesia?"

"Yes," the nurse said softly. "Her drug interactions made sedation impossible. She was... very brave. She didn't make a sound."

Dillard felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at the yellow bag on the floor. That was Erica's blood. While he was drinking scotch. While he was laughing at Gisselle on the phone.

He walked to the bedside table. A plastic patient wristband lay there, cut off.

Erica Bentley. Fall Risk.

He picked it up. It felt light, flimsy.

Brisa touched his arm. "Dillard, maybe the nurse is mistaken..."

"Get out," Dillard whispered.

"What?"

"Get out!" he roared, spinning on her. His eyes were wild. "Leave!"

Brisa recoiled, terrified. She turned and ran, her heels clattering away.

Dillard looked at the nurse. "Who took her?"

"A friend. Miss Dixon."

Dillard fumbled for his phone. He dialed Erica. Straight to voicemail.

He dialed Gisselle.

The call failed immediately. Blocked.

Panic, cold and suffocating, wrapped around his throat. She was gone. She was hurt, bleeding, and she was gone.