Emily glanced at the clock on the microwave. It had been two hours since Carma went to bed. The apartment was too quiet. Carma usually tossed and turned, the floorboards creaking. Tonight, nothing.

A knot formed in Emily's stomach. She walked down the narrow hallway and stopped outside the guest room door. She knocked softly.

"Carma? You asleep?"

No answer.

Emily knocked louder. "Carma? I'm coming in."

She turned the knob. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Emily flipped the light switch.

Carma was lying on the bed, her body twisted in the sheets. Her face was swollen, covered in angry red hives. Her lips were a terrifying shade of blue. Her chest was heaving, a rattling sound coming from her throat.

"Carma!" Emily screamed. She rushed to the bed, grabbing her friend's shoulders. Carma's eyes were open but unfocused, rolling back in her head.

Emily's eyes darted to the nightstand. The open bottle of Ambien lay on its side, a single white pill resting on the wood beside it. Only one was missing.

Suicide. She was trying to kill herself.

Emily's hands shook so badly she almost dropped her phone. She dialed 911, her voice a ragged shriek. "Help! My friend took some pills—I don't know how many—but she's not breathing!4321 Sunset Boulevard, apartment 2B! Hurry!"

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of sirens and flashing lights. The paramedics burst through the door, lifting Carma onto a stretcher. Emily rode in the back of the ambulance, clutching Carma's limp hand, tears streaming down her face.

The Cedars-Sinai Emergency Room was a chaos of beeping machines and rushing nurses. Carma was wheeled into a trauma bay, the curtains pulled shut around her.

Emily stood outside, her face pressed against the fabric, watching as doctors and nurses swarmed her friend.

"BP is dropping! Sixty over forty!"

"Intubation tray!"

"Push point-five epi!"

A tall man in blue scrubs stepped into the bay. He had dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and cold blue eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He moved with a precise, robotic efficiency, barking orders that the nurses scrambled to obey.

"Get the charcoal ready," the doctor said, his voice devoid of emotion. "And call the psych ward. We have another overdose."

Emily flinched. She pushed through the curtain. "She didn't overdose! It was an accident!"

The doctor turned his cold gaze on her. "Ma'am, you need to step back."

"But she only took one! I think she's having a reaction—an allergy or something!" Emily sobbed. "It's because of her husband! He's leaving her! She wasn't trying to die!"

The doctor-Arvel Hurst, according to his badge-stared at her. His jaw tightened. He looked back at the swollen, blue-lipped woman on the gurney. Another broken heart. Another waste of his time.

"Ma'am, I need you to wait outside," he said, his voice clipped. "Now."

Emily was escorted out by a nurse. She slumped into a plastic chair in the waiting room, burying her face in her hands.

Inside the trauma bay, Arvel worked methodically. He inserted the breathing tube, pumped the woman's stomach, and administered the antidote. It was textbook. It was routine. It was utterly exhausting.

He looked down at the woman's face as the color slowly returned to her cheeks. She was young. Too young to throw her life away over a man.

"Stupid," he muttered under his breath. He pulled off his gloves with a snap and walked out to update the chart.

An hour later, Carma opened her eyes. The world was a blur of white ceiling tiles and harsh fluorescent lights. A tube was jammed down her throat. Her body ached like she had been hit by a truck.

She gagged, and a nurse rushed over, gently removing the breathing tube. Carma coughed, her throat burning.

Emily was at her side in an instant, grabbing her hand. "Oh my god, Carma. You're awake. You scared me to death."

"What... what happened?" Carma croaked, her voice a rasp.

"You had an allergic reaction to the Ambien," Emily said, her eyes red and puffy. "Your throat closed up. I thought... I thought you were..."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't mention the pills on the nightstand or what she had told the 911 operator.

Carma lay back against the pillow, her head pounding. She had almost died. Over a sleeping pill. The irony was too bitter to swallow.

The curtain parted, and Dr. Arvel Hurst walked in. He didn't look at her face; he looked at the monitors, checking the numbers. He held a tablet in his hand, tapping the screen with a stylus.

"Miss Forbes," he said, his voice flat. "You're awake."

"Yes," Carma whispered, her throat raw.

Arvel didn't look up. "You're lucky your friend found you when she did. Another ten minutes and you would have been brain dead."

Carma stared at his profile. He was handsome, in a severe kind of way, but his demeanor was arctic. "Thank you for saving me."

Arvel finally looked at her. His blue eyes were hard, devoid of any warmth. "Don't thank me. Thank the paramedics. I just did my job." He tapped the tablet again. "Your friend said you were under significant personal distress. Anaphylactic shock isn't a joke. Next time you're dealing with emotional turmoil, I'd suggest calling a therapist, not reaching for medication you're unfamiliar with. This ER is for people with acute medical emergencies, not for those who are careless with their health."

Carma blinked, the words stinging with their cold, clinical judgment. "What? I didn't-"

"Save it," Arvel cut her off, his lip curling slightly. "The 'my husband doesn't love me' routine is old. You're wasting resources that could be used on patients who are actually fighting to live. Don't do it again."

He turned on his heel and walked out, the curtain swishing shut behind him.

Carma stared at the empty space, too stunned to speak. He thought she was careless. He thought she was pathetic.

Emily squeezed her hand, her face pale. "Carma, I'm so sorry. I told them you took pills because of Kendall... I didn't know it would be that bad. I made a mistake."

Carma didn't respond. She just stared at the ceiling, the humiliation burning hotter than the hives on her skin.

The hospital room was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Emily had gone to get coffee, her face still etched with guilt. Carma lay in the bed, staring at the IV drip in her arm, wishing she could rip it out and run.

The door clicked open.

Carma expected a nurse. Instead, Kendall Kirby walked in. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses, looking like a cliché of a celebrity trying to hide.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, his lip curling in disgust. "Well, you really did it this time, didn't you?"

Carma pushed herself up against the pillows, her body screaming in protest. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing damage control," Kendall snapped, pulling off his sunglasses. His eyes were cold. "Imagine my surprise when I get a call from my lawyer saying my wife is in the ER after a suicide attempt. Are you trying to ruin me?"

"I didn't attempt suicide," Carma said, her voice weak but firm. "It was an allergic reaction."

"Right." Kendall scoffed, walking closer to the bed. "A convenient allergy. You're pathetic, Carma. You think swallowing a bottle of pills is going to make me change my mind? It just makes you look desperate."

The words hit her like a slap. She had almost died. And the only thing he cared about was his image.

"You think I did this for you?" she asked, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.

"I know you did," Kendall said, leaning over her. "And it's not going to work. You can threaten me with lawyers, you can try to kill yourself, but I am not staying married to you. Not for a second longer."

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "You know, I used to feel sorry for you. The poor little orphan from Ohio. But now I see you for what you really are. You're just like your mother. A weak, pathetic drunk who would rather die in a ditch than take responsibility for her own life."

The air left the room.

Carma's mother had died in a car accident when Carma was sixteen. She had been driving home from a double shift. She was tired. She was not a drunk. Kendall knew that. He had heard the story a hundred times. And he was using it to hurt her.

Something inside Carma snapped.

The grief, the humiliation, the fear-it all burned away, leaving nothing but pure, white-hot rage.

She sat up straight, ignoring the pain that lanced through her chest. She grabbed the IV needle in her arm and yanked it out.

Blood spurted from the vein, dripping onto the white sheets.

"Carma, what the hell are you-" Kendall stepped back, his eyes wide.

She didn't stop. She threw the blankets off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor. She stood up, swaying slightly, but her eyes never left his face.

"Say that again," she whispered, her voice shaking with fury. "Say that about my mother again."

Kendall recovered his composure, sneering at her. "What? The truth hurts? Your cheap little act doesn't work on me, Carma. You're nothing but a worthless charity case."

Carma smiled. It was a terrifying, hollow smile. Tears streamed down her face, but she was laughing.

"You're right, Kendall," she said, her voice rising. "I shouldn't have tried to kill myself. That would be too easy on you."

She took a step toward him, her blood dripping onto the floor. Kendall actually flinched.

"I'm going to live," she said, her eyes burning into his. "I'm going to live, and I'm going to thrive, and I am going to watch you fall. I'm going to watch everyone realize that the great Kendall Kirby is a fraud. And when you're lying in the gutter, I'm going to walk right over you."

Kendall stared at her, his face pale. He had never seen this look in her eyes before. She wasn't the quiet, compliant wife anymore. She was a stranger, and she was dangerous.

"You came here because you're scared," Carma continued, stepping even closer. "You're scared that I'm going to tell the world what a monster you are. You should be. But you should be scared of so much more. You have no idea what you've thrown away, Kendall. You're going to find out that the 'stain' you despise was the only thing holding your gilded cage together. Now get out."

Kendall's phone rang in his pocket, the shrill tone breaking the tension. He fumbled to answer it, his eyes still on Carma. It was Marcus, his agent, screaming about the Xen deal falling apart.

Kendall backed away toward the door, his face a mask of shock and fear. He turned and practically ran out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

He stormed down the hallway, his mind racing. He had to get out of there. He had to think. He rounded the corner at a fast clip, his head down, and slammed right into a solid wall of muscle and cotton.

Papers exploded into the air. A metal clipboard clattered to the floor.

"Watch where you're going," Kendall snapped, rubbing his shoulder.

The man he had collided with looked up. He was tall, wearing scrubs. He had dark hair and cold, piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was holding a now-empty coffee cup, the lid popped off.

Dr. Arvel Hurst stared at the man who had just knocked his charts out of his hands. He recognized him instantly. Kendall Kirby. The actor. The husband of the woman in room 402.

Arvel had heard the shouting from down the hall. He had heard the words "pathetic" and "drunk."

He pushed his glasses up his nose, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Kirby. I suggest you watch your tone. And your speed. This is a hospital, not a red carpet."

Kendall glared at him, then pushed past, disappearing down the stairwell.

Arvel watched him go, a strange feeling settling in his gut. He bent down to pick up his scattered papers. The woman in 402 was an overdose. A desperate housewife. That was the story.

But the man who had just run into him didn't look like a grieving husband. He looked like a bully.

Arvel frowned, stacking the charts. Maybe he had missed something.